


Fleeting Moments

by Brynneth



Series: Fleeting Moments [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-08
Updated: 2012-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynneth/pseuds/Brynneth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets that express the growing relationship between Garrett and Fenris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stolen Memories

My breath almost gone, I slam shut the front door of my mansion.  Gasping, my eyes scan the entrance hall wildly, searching for hidden danger.  Old habits are hard to break.  Huge, dusty furniture looms around me, scattered debris littering the hall.  A stray thought:  why have I never cleaned up this place, this empty shell I call a home?  My breath is ragged; I have run the short distance from Hawke's estate at a full, blinding speed.  But this is not the reason my heart slams against my ribs, shuddering in its cage of bones.  I did not flee my enemy, those Tevinter bastards that seek only to recapture their deadly toy.  It is Hawke I seek to escape, those blue eyes as deep as the ocean.  Even as I close my eyes to erase the memory, they are still there, burning with longing.  Oh, what have I done to deserve that?

 

I shake my head to clear it, and my hand restlessly brushes back shockingly white hair.  Even this familiar habit; did I always do this when I felt frustrated?  I can't remember.  I can _never_ remember, no matter how much my minds strains and gropes for something, anything from _before_.  It is simply gone, my previous life.

 

Slowly, I climb the stairs, one clawed finger scraping a trail through the dust on the banister.  A cobweb brushes against my cheek, and I flick it away impatiently.  Perhaps I refuse to clean simply because my home is a reflection of my mind.  Rooms full of dusty cobwebs and neglect, walls adorned with paintings of unknown people and forgotten places.  A fitting abode for a former slave, a suitable mind for an elf with no past, is it not?

 

The fireplace is cold and dark, and I hasten to light the wood within.  If only I could illuminate the dark passages of my mind so easily!  I crouch before the dancing flames, letting the heat warm my skin.  I stretch out my arms to the fire, my eyes glancing over the hated white lines of lyrium.  Only a few hours earlier, those lines had flashed intensely blue as I shoved Hawke against the wall.  I can still recall the vividness of my fury when he grabbed my arm, such audacity!  He _knew_ what it did to me, when someone dared touch my skin.  Yet, he had reached for me anyway, to stop me from leaving.

 

I close my eyes, the memory of his face etched on the back of my eyelids.  He had shown no fear, no apology at crossing that forbidden line.  As the lyrium in my skin flared bright, he had simply returned my gaze with frightening intensity.  And _that_ was what stopped me from releasing my power, from killing the man who had shown me only kindness.  Even I, stunted in the understanding of emotions as I am, could see the feeling in the depths of those blue eyes.

 

Ah, Hawke, you unraveled the very fiber of my being with that single look.  For the first time in my short truncated memory, someone wanted me; not for my power but for being myself.  How could I not respond to that?  Always, I have been so careful, so calculated in my every move.  But in that moment, I threw caution aside and simply _reacted_ as my body wished.  Even now, hours later, I can still feel his lips on mine, his mouth giving way to my seeking tongue.

 

My hands clench in agony.  The tips of my gauntlets dig hard into my palms, gouging bloody holes in my flesh.  All these past years I had spent wishing for some slip of a memory, and now I longed only to forget this night.  Abruptly, I stand and move to the chest in the corner, where I have stashed the bottles I discovered in the cellar.  I pull out a dusty decanter, full of blood-red wine, aged to expensive perfection.  No cheap liquor here, in the Hightown mansion of some disappeared Tevinter merchant.  Or had it been Danarius who had stocked the cellar after claiming this estate for his own?  I chuckle darkly as I wonder what Danarius would think of one of his slaves drinking wine meant for nobility.

 

I spear the cork with the tip of my gauntlet, and it pops out obligingly.  No glass needed for me; I press the bottle directly to my lips and let the cool liquid burn down my throat.  The flavor is light and sweet, and I am reminded reluctantly of another flavor.  That taste was somewhat salty but no less sweet, and even more intoxicating than this wine.  Even now, my tongue remembers licking that delightful fluid from Hawke, as he thrust himself even deeper into my mouth.

 

Enough!  Gritting my teeth, I carry the wine over to the wooden table and slouch in the battle-scarred chair.  I tip the bottle back and drink long desperate gulps of the liquor, desiring only to push away the memory of this night.  But Hawke is stubborn; even in my mind he can't stop his persistent need to make things right.  I have never met anyone quite like him, and even though we disagree on some things, I cannot walk away from this man who refuses to treat me like a slave.

 

I know nothing of this desire I seek:  freedom.  It is merely an idea that dangles in front of my mind, taunting me with its promises.  I am still essentially a babe, born fully-grown amidst the deepest pits of hell, surrounded by pain that defies description.  I have no memory of my childhood, my family, my life before the lyrium was branded into my body.  I am told that I was a slave in that time before, just as I became after my awful rebirth.  Did I also belong to Danarius in that forgotten past?  I do not know, and it doesn't matter.  I became his weapon, and he owned me.

 

How swiftly I learned the penalty of disobedience.  These same lines on my skin that grant me power could also dispense punishment of the most excruciating kind.  With a mere gesture, Danarius could reduce me to a mass of writhing agony, lyrium burning sinuous trails of fire into my skin.  Only twice did I dare to defy my master, the first time being when he ordered me to drive my sword through another servant who had displeased him.  I learned then, with bitterness, that my own body would betray me at his command.  The second time came when weeks later, he displayed me, his prize possession, to his fellow magister friends.  When one of them commented that such a beautiful weapon could be put to more than one use, he gave me over to them for their amusement.  That memory is very dark indeed, the pain of my resistance no less than the pain they bestowed upon me during that long night.

 

Is it truly unexpected then, that I expect every touch on my skin to bring pain?  Yet tonight, I learned a different touch, the touch of redemption.  When I close my eyes, I realize that I don't want to push away this memory after all.  My memories are so few and so dark, should I not struggle to retain those that are precious?  Everything has been stolen from me:  my family, my memories, my life, my will.  There is nothing I can claim to be mine, not even my own body.  But _this_ , this memory I will keep as my own.  It is the bright star in my eternal night.

 

And so, I sit here in this uncomfortable chair and relive each moment.  I remember the feel of Hawke's hardened skin beneath my fingers, after we had shed our clothes.  I can remember how his fingers buried themselves in my hair, as he pulled my mouth to his, his tongue caressing my lips until I yielded to him.  I remember the care with which he stroked those dangerous lines on my skin, his eyes watching me carefully to see if he was causing me pain.  Never had I been touched with such tenderness!  I felt how a god must feel, being worshipped with such fervor.

 

We tasted each other, each taking the other into his mouth, sharing a pleasure I had barely even known  existed.  I can still recall the feel of his smooth hardness in my mouth while he sucked at my own length, teasing me into a frenzy.  And Maker... the exquisite ecstasy I felt as he penetrated deeply inside of me; it was _nothing_ like what the magisters did to me.  The sheer sensation of fullness, of Hawke's desire for me, awakened feelings I never knew I had.  He took nothing from me that he did not give back in abundance.  Even as he neared his own completion, he caressed my hardness, stroking it gently until I exploded with a cry ripped from my very soul.  Only then, did he allow his own release, and how sweetly do I remember the sound of my name as he filled me with his essence.

 

Even those precious moments pale next to the memory of how he held me afterwards.  I rested my head on his chest and listened to the soothing rhythm of his heart as he drifted into sleep.  I felt like I was finally home, like I _belonged_ here.  But that peace was short-lived, and the darkness returned with a vengeance that drove me to leave his bed.  Even in Hawke's arms, I could not forget who I am and who he is.  What is lust and desire compared to the clarity of reality?  Life is not a dream where anything is possible.  I am an elf, a former slave, a being that has been changed into something warped and deadly.  What place do I have with Hawke, a man whose destiny seems linked to the very foundation of Kirkwall?

 

And so, I tried to sneak away like a common thief.  But Hawke heard me and woke, and I remember the bewilderment in his eyes as I tried to explain myself to him.  He doesn't understand; he comes from a different world than I do.  I had to force myself to leave in the end, though he wished me to stay.  Someday, he will realize that what we shared this night simply cannot be.  Until then, I must be the strong one, the one to erect a barrier between our hearts.

 

I slump in this miserable chair in this decaying room and stare into the dying embers of the fire.  Ah, how I once longed for this, a place away from the Imperium and Danarius.  But now that I have it, I feel no more free than I did when I was a slave.  All has been stolen from me, and all that remain are my skills.  I will give those to Hawke for as long as he has need of me.  I hope it will be enough.  As I toss the empty bottle into the fireplace, it shatters into a thousand tiny pieces, a fitting mirror of my heart.


	2. Stolen Heart

After he leaves, I stare blindly at the cracked plaster on the ceiling.  Did I push too hard too fast?  Fenris is so strong that I sometimes forget how fragile he really is, underneath that lyrium-streaked skin.  My father used to say that people like him are like onions, made up of many layers.  As soon as you peel away one layer, there are still many more to discover.  But even that is too simple an analogy for Fenris.  He is more like a ceramic vase that has been cracked to many pieces and then glued back together; a damaged, empty vessel looking to be filled.  But I don't think he has figured out yet what to fill himself with.

 

His singular hatred of mages should have made any friendship between us impossible.  If I hadn't been so persistent, he probably would have abandoned me long ago.  I can't say I haven't been tempted occasionally to freeze him with my magic, just to quiet that stinging tongue of his.  Tact is not something Fenris is familiar with, and his brash bluntness has irritated my other friends more than once.  He carries his rage like a shield to hide behind, a barrier to keep anyone from getting too close.  He insists that he is no longer a slave, yet he doesn't see that hatred is his master, that it controls him just as completely as Danarius ever did.

 

My other companions avoid him outside of my presence, except for Isabela.  She visits him occasionally at his dilapidated mansion, that run-down place he calls his home.  I remember the one time I offered to help him clean and decorate the place.  I was following him up the stairs to his bedroom, the only room he truly occupies.

 

"Fenris, this place looks no different than when we first entered it.  Let's fix it up; we can make it look so much better."  He actually froze mid-step and whirled around, those emerald eyes flickering with that fury that lives constantly under his skin.

 

"Make it look better for who, Hawke?  My esteemed, upper-class neighbors?  The viscount?  I must have forgotten about all the people in Kirkwall who are so anxious to visit an elf squatting in a Hightown mansion.  Or perhaps you want my home to look particularly lovely for Danarius and his men when they finally arrive?"  His deep voice almost cracked with the heavy venom dripping from each word.

 

"Of course not, Fenris.  I only wanted to..."

 

"...to help the poor, escaped elven slave.  I am not one of your fellow Ferelden refugees, Hawke.  I will not beg for handouts, nor do I need to.  My home is exactly how I wish it to be:  a reminder that in truth, I have no real home."

 

I let it go, that time.  I have learned the hard way, that you have to pick your battles with Fenris.  If I push too hard, I will certainly drive him away, as I did this night.  Perhaps what we shared in my bed was a mistake, but I refuse to accept that.  He came to _me_ after all, and I know that I did not imagine that haunted look in his eyes when he said he couldn't stop thinking about me.  That look was what gave me the courage to grasp his arm, to brave the taboo of touching him.  Even as he slammed me against the wall, I _knew_ he would not hurt me.  And I dared to let down my own walls; I allowed him to see the hunger in my eyes, the raw need that matched his own.  I stood before him unveiled and vulnerable, and he could have rejected me, mocked me for my weakness.  But he kissed me instead, pouring all of his desire, his _trust,_ into that intimate contact.

 

I remember the first time he gave me that precious gift, his trust.  I gave him a book on Shartan, thinking perhaps insanely, that a former slave would be interested in reading about another slave who became famous in deed and in faith.  His face clouded with confusion as he stared blankly at the book in his hands.  I thought briefly that he was angered at my assumption.  I had stupidly never realized that he was illiterate, and my naivete shone starkly against my goodwill.  But I could see the regret defined in those emerald eyes as he chastised me for my error.  I extended an offer to teach him, afraid it would seem condescending, but he accepted it with little hesitation.  I see this as the turning point, the moment our friendship truly began.

 

It took a demon from his past to push the friendship into something more.  I will never forget the hatred on Fenris's face when he confronted his former master's apprentice.  I hope to never see it again, so black and malignant as it was.  It is the poison in Fenris's soul, this hatred, the festering sludge I long to scrape out of his mind that he might live truly free.  It cages him as thoroughly as Danarius ever did, but he does not yet see this.  I hoped it would lessen after Hadriana's death, but he merely turned it on the rest of us.  He fled, and as I stared at Hadriana's corpse, I could feel only pity for him.

 

But he came back to me last night and kissed me with a passion that rivaled his hatred.  We drowned ourselves in wet, smoldering heat, our tongues stroking each other.  Very faintly, I heard a growl as he pressed his muscular body against mine.  That growl, that voice!  When he spoke, the very core of my being vibrated with desire.

 

"I do not know which consumes my mind more:  Danarius or you, Hawke."  His hand slipped beneath my tunic and brushed against my ribs.  His eyes were inches from mine, and I was utterly lost in that sea of green.  "Lately, I have thought of you a great deal."  His hand dipped below the waistband of my trousers, and I could do nothing but stand there, pinned by that piercing gaze.  "You are a mage, yet I trust you, _want_ you."  His questing fingers reached their goal, closed around my girth.  My body shuddered and I gasped for air, drowning beneath the intensity of his words.

 

I wanted to insure that he understood that his trust was reciprocated.  When he withdrew his hand, I began to undress slowly, watching his reaction.  Far from skittish, his eyes followed my every move and roamed freely over my body, lingering at the sight of my erection.  I took the lead at that point, taking his hand and pulling him toward my bed.  Fenris refused to submit however, and pushed me gently down on the mattress.  It was my turn to watch him undress, and until that moment, I had no idea how starved I had been for the sight of him.  It was the first time I had seen all of Fenris in his tattooed glory, and he was truly magnificent.  Those lines of lyrium that he despised so much were as sweet to my eyes as candy is to a child.  I wanted to inhale him, devour him, and mark him as mine.

 

He crawled over me like a panther stalking its prey, and when I stretched my palms over his chest, he flinched only a little.  I hesitated, not wanting to push, and his eyes glanced away in sudden shyness at his sensitivity to being touched.  Wanting to reassure him, I grabbed his silvery-white hair and pulled him into a deep kiss, melting away his fear.  As he relaxed against me, I thrust upward, rubbing our erections together.  He released a deep-throated groan and tilted his head back in pleasure.  I used that moment to attempt something I had only wondered about before.  He had mentioned to me once that Danarius could control him by causing his tattoos to flare with pain.  What if I could infuse them with a different magic?

 

Spreading my fingers across the twining threads of lyrium on his chest, I released just a small pulse of soothing healing magic and closely watched his reaction.  Fenris went completely still, his eyes widening in shock, but he didn't flinch or pull away from me.  The beautiful blue lines glowed briefly in response to my magic.  He lowered his gaze to mine, and I read confusion on his face.

 

"What... was that?  What did you do?"

 

I raised my hands to his shoulders and rubbed them soothingly.  "I just wanted to see what would happen.  Did it hurt?  I won't do it again if it did."  I watched him anxiously, half-afraid that he would flee from me.

 

He blinked.  "No, it didn't hurt.  It felt... I'm not sure.  Would you do it again, please?"  This time I lowered my hands to the tattoos on his hips and again directed a small amount of my magic into the lyrium in his skin.  There was no doubt about his reaction; I felt his erection twitch against mine, and he gasped.  Reassured, I slowly traced the lines down his hips and along his thighs as far as I could reach.  Each pulse of magic caused him to shiver, and his eyes closed in pleasure.

 

"Do you want me to stop?"

 

"Please... no."  He opened his eyes to look at me, and they were so dark, pupils blown wide.  Encouraged, I guided him to lay on his side and scooted down until his erection faced my curious mouth.  My tongue licked and teased relentlessly while my hands stroked soft magic into the lines on his thighs.  Fenris groaned, arching his back and shuddering beneath the dual pleasure.  He was murmuring quiet words that I vaguely recognized as Tevinter.  How I loved the sound of that deep voice practically _curling_ around the foreign words in much the same way as his fingers had curled around my length only minutes earlier.

 

Abruptly, he pulled away, leaving my tongue yearning for more of his taste.  He flipped himself around on the bed until my erection was facing his mouth, just as his faced mine.  Teasingly, he lapped at the clear fluid leaking from me, and I groaned at the sheer sensation of him tasting me.  Eager to reciprocate, I pulled his length once more into my mouth and gave him one long, slow suck.  I could _feel_ as well as hear his strangled moan, and he gave up the teasing and drew me into the wet, glorious heat of his mouth.  It was almost too much, this shared intimacy, and I knew I could not hold out for long.  I reached one hand along the back of his thigh and released a stronger pulse of magic than before.  Fenris shuddered, bucking his hips against my face, his fingers curling into my buttocks.  I could feel how close he was, and I was determined that he would have his pleasure first.

 

Taking his length as deep inside my mouth as I could, I sent one more powerful surge of magic into his skin, even as I sucked strongly at his erection.  It was enough.  Utterly shattered, he threw back his head as his body convulsed against mine.

 

" _Garrett_."  It was the first time he had used my true name, and it sounded beautiful and exotic exploding from his lips.  His seed pulsed across my tongue, and I took it eagerly, the bitter, salty taste of this elf I desired so much.  Lost in the moment, I had almost forgotten my own need, but he hadn't.  As soon as he had recovered, he pushed me roughly to my back and took me fully into his mouth once again.  I tried to thrust into him, but he would have none of it and held my hips firmly.  Briefly releasing my erection, he looked up into my pleading eyes, those green eyes burning.

 

" _Come_ for me, Garrett."  His voice seemed to reach deep down into my core, and it _wrenched_ a response from my trembling body.  As he took me one last time into his mouth, I fell apart, crying out his name.  It seemed to take forever to come back together; and when I did, he was lying next to me, holding me in his arms.  I rested my head on his chest, his heartbeat the only thing I needed to hear as I drifted off into blissful sleep.

 

But when does bliss ever last?  When I awoke, the bed next to me was cold and empty.  Confused, I sat up and saw him standing by the fire watching me with an odd look.  I tried to joke, asking him if it had truly been so awful an experience.  He wasn't in a humorous mood however, and my heart sank as his words made it clear that he was about to run from me, from _us_.  I tried, oh how I _tried_ to reach out to him, but he was gone, a blur of smoke and lyrium.

 

I had failed.  I had wanted Fenris to feel whole, to mend the fractures in him.  But instead I had confused him even more, and now he was gone, possibly more ruined than he had been before.  As I lie here in this cold bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, I realize that Fenris isn't the only person who needs healing.  For one night, I had found what I needed and then lost it.  Who would help me mend my soul now?  I stare into the dying flames of my hearth, but they give me no answer, no peace. 

 


	3. Lesson in Humility

Fenris sat on the hard iron bunk, elbows on knees and head bowed in thought.  The small stone cell was cold and damp, small rivulets of slimy water trickling down the walls from cracks in the ceiling.  It was one of several cells situated in a large room that served as a makeshift dungeon.  He figured that he was in some kind of underground hideout, probably in Darktown where many such lairs existed.  At least that meant that the Tevinter bounty hunters hadn't got him on a ship to the Imperium yet.  There was still time to escape, although he had no idea how he was going to manage it this time.  They were being extra careful with him; his weapon had been taken, and there were three mages sitting outside his cell watching him.  If he even tried to move toward the door, they would make a simple gesture, and every line of lyrium on his body would flare in excruciating pain, completely incapacitating him.  He knew this because in his rage, he had stupidly tried more than once.  They hadn't even bothered to laugh; they simply watched him writhe on the floor with their flat, dispassionate stares.

 

How could he have been so foolish to let his guard down?  They had been waiting for him in his own mansion, where he had spent four years waiting for Danarius.  He should have been prepared; but no, he had been returning home lost in thought.  It had been a long day at the docks, where he had found a temporary job loading ships for a meager salary.  As he wearily strolled home, his mind had been lingering on Hawke again.  He yearned for the quiet evenings spent together at The Hanged Man or at either of their homes.  That had ended when he had fled from Hawke on that memorable night in Hawke's bed.

 

He pressed the heels of his palms against his forehead.  Even now, in the despair of his captivity, he could still see those piercing blue eyes and feel the warmth of Hawke's skin against his own.  A year later, he still could taste those soft lips melded to his and feel Hawke's fingers scratching against his scalp.  That night had marked him in so many ways, and he had lived the regret of its end every day since.  Now it was too late; they would be taking him back to Danarius soon, back to slavery.  There would be no opportunity to share his feelings with Hawke.  His hands clenched, and the tips of his gauntlets gouged deep, bloody streaks into his palms.

 

A shout sounded from the corridor leading to the dungeon.  As Fenris looked up, the three mages quickly moved toward the door, looking alarmed.  Screams came from close by, and Fenris saw blue flashes of lightning.  The mages rushed out the door, already chanting spells as they went.  Unheeded, Fenris leaped to the bars that formed the door of his cell, eyes riveted to the open doorway.  A throaty familiar laugh echoed down the corridor, and a stray arrow flew in the room to land harmlessly nearby.  _Varric_.  Which meant...

 

More lightning flashed, and one of his mage captors fell dead to the floor, lying crumpled in the doorway.  The shouts were dwindling now, and suddenly a leather boot appeared, kicking the mage's corpse aside.  Its wearer followed the boot; a tall mage in dark gray robes, his black hair ruffled askew. _Hawke_.  Fenris's heart jerked at the sight of his one-time lover.  They still worked together on occasion, but after that momentous night, were never alone together.  Hawke never spoke of it and seemed inclined to give Fenris the space he had requested.  There were still moments like this however, moments where their eyes locked and volumes of unspoken words seemed to pass between them.

 

Muttering to himself, Varric followed Hawke into the room, kicking the dead mage with obvious pleasure.  Faithful Bianca rested companionably on his shoulder, cradled lovingly in the dwarf's roughened hand.  Aveline pushed in behind him, red hair falling around her face in loose strands.

 

"I really need to get more guards to patrol Darktown and flush out these Tevinter hideaways," grumbled Aveline.  She smiled wearily at Fenris.  "At least you're still here though."

 

Varric pulled his lock picks out and fumbled at the cell door.  Hawke remained silent, but his eyes were carefully assessing Fenris.  With a satisfied grunt, Varric jerked the door open and gestured grandly at Fenris while bowing.

 

"You are freed, Ser!"  Fenris immediately headed to a chest in the corner of the dungeon, where they had stored his greatsword.  Already he felt better as he slid it in its sheath on his back.  There was nothing like a good weapon to make you feel safer.

 

"Are you hurt, Fenris?"  Hawke's soft tenor sent a shiver down his spine.  He glanced quickly at the mage, not quite meeting those blue eyes.

 

"I am quite fine.  A few bruises never hurt me before."  He looked toward the doorway apprehensively.  "We should leave quickly before more arrive."  He started for the door, then paused hesitantly without turning around.  "Thank you... for coming for me.  I don't know how you found me, but it is appreciated."  He looked at the wall as he spoke; thanks and apologies were always difficult for him to express.  They were yet another aspect of freedom that he was trying to become familiar with.

 

"Bodahn was outside in the square when they took you away," said Hawke from behind him.  "One of them was carrying you over his shoulder, and you were clearly unconscious.  He was alarmed and alerted me at once.  Varric had contacts who knew where their lair was located.  Aveline offered to help."

 

"I wanted to know where they were hiding out anyway," said Aveline.  "I'll be sending the guard here later.  But for now, let's get out of here."  She stepped in front of Fenris and headed swiftly out the door, followed by Varric.  Hawke stepped up and very carefully laid a gentle hand on Fenris's shoulder.  Even that light touch caused him to flinch, and Hawke withdrew his hand.

 

"I was... worried.  I'm glad you're okay."  His eyes met Fenris's gaze briefly, searchingly.  Before Fenris could reply however, he pushed past the elf and hurried after Varric.  Another opportunity lost, another moment gone.  With a weary sigh, Fenris followed his companions out of the dungeon.

 

#####

 

They made it back to Hightown with relatively little difficulty.  It was very late, and the streets were empty except for a few guards on patrol, who nodded respectfully at Aveline.  Varric headed to the Blooming Rose for a drink, and Aveline hurried off to the barracks to report the location of the slavers' hideout.  Hawke and Fenris walked silently together toward their estates, which were located quite close to each other.  They reached Fenris's mansion first, and Fenris paused to look cautiously at his friend.

 

"Would you... like to come in for a glass of wine?"  It was the first invitation he had offered to Hawke in over a year, and the surprise in Hawke's eyes reflected this.

 

"Yes.  I would like that."  He smiled a little at Fenris, although his stance was clearly wary.

 

They entered the mansion and walked upstairs to the only room Fenris bothered to make livable.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hawke frown at the dilapidated condition of the estate.  There had already been one conversation between them regarding the sorry state of his home, and Fenris was pleased to see that Hawke had learned his lesson and was keeping his mouth shut.  The mansion meant nothing to him; it was merely a place to sleep and wait for Danarius to arrive.  Four years of waiting hadn't changed his view on the place.

 

Fenris retrieved a bottle of wine and popped the cork easily with the tip of his gauntlet.  Handing the bottle to Hawke, he went to the hearth and started up a pleasant fire.  He settled himself in the chair next to the mage and watched as Hawke tipped the bottle back, his lips pressed firmly to the opening as he gulped the sweet liquor.  A flash of memory flared in his mind:  Hawke's lips pressed in a similar fashion around his length, his throat working as Fenris released his seed in Hawke's eager mouth.  Fenris closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath.  He truly didn't know if the memory of that night was a blessing or a curse.

 

He opened his eyes to see Hawke holding out the bottle to him.  Trembling only slightly, he took it and gulped almost frantically, relaxing as the liquid burned a path to his stomach.  He had been so close to losing his freedom tonight; it could not be allowed to happen a second time.  He would have to be more careful, take more precautions.  Hawke could not always be his safety net, and after Fenris's rejection of him, how much longer would he even want to socialize with Fenris?  He turned his head to look at his friend and noticed that Hawke was staring at his feet.

 

"What?  Something wrong?"  He looked down at his feet with some confusion.  Even in the city, elves did not wear shoes.  Their soles were tougher than those of humans, and most elves enjoyed the feel of the ground against their bare feet.  Of course over time, elven feet became stained from the constant exposure to dirt, but this was considered typical.  Most elves washed their feet at the end of each day; they enjoyed feeling clean just as much as humans.  Fenris's feet were understandably dirty tonight from all the walking through the damp underground rooms.  He had never noticed Hawke looking concerned about them before, but the mage was staring at them now with a furrowed brow that meant he was worried about something.

 

"Don't they ever hurt?"  Hawke twitched his own booted feet in sympathy.

 

"Sometimes they do when I'm walking in rough terrain.  Usually, I don't really notice it though."  He lifted one foot to examine the stained, blackened sole.  "Guess I'll have to clean them pretty thoroughly before I go to bed."

 

"May I?"  Hawke's voice was tentative, almost tremulous.  Fenris stared at him with consternation.

 

"You want to wash my feet?  How strong is this wine anyway?"  He frowned at the offending bottle, wondering if Hawke was truly such a lightweight drinker.

 

"Fenris... please.  You've been through a lot tonight.  I'm a healer... just let me do it."  He stood abruptly and moved swiftly to the nearby washroom, Fenris gaping at him in astonishment.  Sometimes, Hawke seemed like such a strange mage.

 

Hawke returned momentarily with a basin of water and a towel over his arm.  While Fenris watched him warily, he settled on the floor at Fenris's feet and looked up at him with a shy grin.

 

"Um... you won't attack me when I touch your feet, will you?"  It was intended as a joke, as Fenris well knew.  They were both aware that Fenris would never purposely hurt Hawke.  That had been established on that memorable night, when Fenris had slammed Hawke against the wall.  That instant of violence had precipitated the entire sensual sequence that had followed.

 

"I promise to try... to be good."  Fenris forced a half-smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.  Seeing Hawke like this, sitting at his feet with those blue eyes burning so intently into his own, it made him shiver just a little.  Too much had happened this night, and he was very... emotionally sensitive at the moment.

 

Hawke reached out and very gently took Fenris's left foot in his hands, and Fenris was secretly pleased that he flinched only a bit.  Hawke lowered the dirty foot into the basin of warm water and began to massage it slowly, scrubbing off the dust first.  Fenris closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax slowly into Hawke's soothing touch.  No one in his short memory had ever washed his feet before.  It seemed so... subservient, so submissive.  And Hawke was so very _tender_ as he raised the elf's foot out of the water and lathered soap into the calloused skin.  The mage took his time, even caressing between each toe until Fenris wanted to _curl_ them around those probing fingers.  His soles were too thick to be ticklish like humans' feet were, but the muscles were still sensitive to the pressure of a sensual touch.

 

After rinsing the decidedly cleaner foot, Hawke set it aside on the towel and reached for the other foot, repeating the same cleansing massage.  His fingers deliberately traced the gleaming lines of lyrium that extended across the top of Fenris's foot.  As he did so, he released just a tiny amount of magic, causing the lines to glow as tingling warmth rushed along the path of the tattoo.  Fenris suppressed a gasp but could not restrain his sudden obvious arousal.  Hawke never looked up; his attention focused solely on the foot in his hands, but Fenris caught a glimpse of a quick smile beneath the tousled black hair.  So he hadn't completely given up on the elf.  Perhaps, just maybe, Fenris hadn't ruined everything after all.

 

Both feet clean, Hawke set aside the basin and gently rubbed the towel over each foot.  Fenris just stared down at him, dazed and still half-hard with desire.  How was it that this mage could stir such feelings in him?  And why, after all that Fenris had said, was he treating the elf with such kindness?  No former slave deserved such loving service... it seemed _wrong_ somehow.  Yet, it went a long way to breaching the stone wall he had built so carefully around his heart.  He could feel the stones crumbling, his resolve to distance himself from Hawke failing.  This man had just washed his _feet_ ; what could Fenris possibly say to that?

 

Hawke stood and set the basin and towel aside on the table.  Again, that shy smile briefly transformed the worry lines of his handsome face.

 

"There.  That's really a lot better, and you won't have to do anything now before going to bed.  Sleep well, Fenris."  He hesitated; then nervously pressed a quick kiss to Fenris's cheek, one hand gently caressing his other cheek.  Then he was gone, the soft swish of his robes marking his swift exit.

 

Fenris sat there for a long time afterward, staring vacantly into the fire while it burned low.  Pride was one of the first things he had sought to build in himself after his flight from Danarius.  As a slave, pride had been nonexistent.  It was something he felt that all free men aspired to achieve, while not letting it overcome them.  But tonight, he had learned something different from Hawke.  Humility was a greater trait than pride, and Hawke had shown him that by his willingness to serve Fenris this evening.  _It is certainly something to remember,_ he thought as he collapsed into his sagging bed and drifted almost immediately into sleep. __


	4. Laughter on the Wounded Coast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to zevgirl for her awesome beta-ness and to all readers for taking the time to view this work.

The Wounded Coast reminded Fenris of Seheron:  the taste of salt in the air and the grittiness of it on his skin, the clumping sand between his toes, and the screech of a gull wheeling overhead.  If he closed his eyes, he could hear the echo of Seheron’s surf the way it sounded at dusk as the Fog Warriors gathered around their campfires to partake of the meat from the day’s hunt.  The resounding crash of the waves had been present even at the end, unable to drown out the cries of battle and the hiss of magic.  As dearly as Fenris longed to remember his past from _before_ , he wished just as much to forget Seheron and the blood-soaked sand beneath his bare feet.

 

Hawke adored the sea.  Before he and his family had traveled to Kirkwall, he had never seen the ocean.  Now, whenever he had the opportunity to accept a mission to the Coast, he took it with all the enthusiasm of a five-year-old boy.  It had become a ritual of a sort, the sojourn to the beach after each job was completed.  Hawke _insisted_ on it, practically dragging them, still bloodied from the fight, down to the sand strewn with driftwood and seaweed.  By now they all expected it and Varric had even given it a name:  “Hawke’s Beach Party.”

 

This day was no different and after slaying a good number of Tal-Vashoth, they were all ready for a rest by the seething waters of the Coast.  Even Merrill didn’t have to ask where they were going as they followed a buoyant Hawke, who became more jovial the closer they came to the rocky beach.  Varric plodded along, humming to himself while Fenris took up the rear, brushing back hair the color of new-fallen snow from his sweaty forehead.  The air had the sour smell of salt and brine, and the humidity left their armor and underclothes sticking uncomfortably to their skin.

 

They always visited the same beach, a circular glade surrounded by palm trees and littered with porous rocks.  It resembled a miniature paradise:  smooth brown sand dappled with shade from the broad palm leaves; clear, blue water shimmering with the late afternoon sun; and a cool, moist breeze ruffling their hair.  Merrill sank onto the sand with a relieved sigh and tilted her petite face to the hot sun, eyes closed as she relaxed into the familiar rhythm of nature.  Varric settled himself on a low rock and pulled Bianca from her sheath, lovingly wiping her polished wood with a clean cloth to remove salt and sand.  Fenris leaned against a tree, his skin-tight armor shielding him from the roughness of the bark, and watched as Hawke kicked off his boots before wading into the surf.

 

It had been two years since that fateful night when Fenris had finally opened his heart enough to allow someone to get a toe inside.  The repercussions still haunted him at night, sending sleep fleeing and driving him to the cellar to fetch more wine.  Varric liked to joke that Fenris was becoming an alcoholic, but one of the dubious qualities of this physique that Danarius had bequeathed him was that he was quite resistant to things like minor illnesses and addictions of food, drink, and drugs.  Unfortunately, this did not include _needs_ such as the feel of skin against skin, the headiness of tongue stroking tongue, the taste of spilled pleasure wetting the lips.  He wouldn’t even _mind_ developing an addiction for those….

 

A shudder wracked his body, and he was _very_ glad that no one was paying him the slightest bit of attention.  Being near Hawke always brought such thoughts to his head, the memories of that night still as vivid as the blue of his tattoos when he became angry.  It was for this reason that he drank in those lonely hours when darkness covered Kirkwall, the bottles of wine his only company.  When the remembrance and the regret became too unbearable, the warmth of the liquor and the blurred haze it bestowed were able to obliterate those memories, if only for the night.

 

A chuckle from Varric brought him back to the present, and he looked up to see Hawke shedding his armor, tossing it back up on the sand carelessly.

 

“Going swimming, Hawke?” Varric called.  Merrill was blushing furiously and averting her gaze.

 

Hawke turned, clothed only in his smallclothes, and gave Varric a mischievous grin.  Wading deeper into the surf, he waited politely until the water rose above his waist before removing the last piece of clothing and gleefully throwing it on top of a nearby rock.  He looked almost like a small boy, his face shining with a childlike openness, the cares of the world momentarily dropping from the creases around his eyes.

 

“Come on in, Varric!  The water is spectacular!”

 

The dwarf shook his head, laughing.  “You know I hate the ocean, Hawke.  I don’t mind sailing it in boats, mind you, but swimming and Varric don’t mix well.”

 

Undaunted, Hawke waved at Merrill.  “Merrill!  Get in here; the water is nice and cool.  I promise I won’t look until you’re submerged.”

 

Merrill smiled bashfully.  “Maybe another time!” she yelled.  “I’ll just sit here and um… enjoy the breeze.”

 

Fenris flinched inwardly as Hawke’s gaze turned to him.  “Fenris?  Don’t leave me out here alone.  It’s no fun playing in the waves by yourself!”

 

The word _no_ was just inside his lips, bursting to come out.  But somehow, the sight of Hawke like this, playful in a way he rarely displayed, pulled at something within him.  The wrench in his gut was a longing usually felt only in the late hours before sleep finally claimed him.  _He_ had been the one to leave Hawke that night two years ago, but he never stopped wishing for another moment, another chance to overcome that fear of being loved.

 

Which was why, even as his unbelieving mind stared back at himself aghast, he found that he was standing by the water, peeling off his sweat-soaked armor and ignoring the jaw-dropping stare of the dwarf.  Merrill gave a surprised, choking cough before determinedly forcing her eyes to the ground.  It was the look on Hawke’s face that mattered, that widening, almost disbelieving grin as he watched Fenris shrug off his smallclothes and stride into the water exactly as if he were advancing on an adversary.

 

The water was _delicious_ , the coolness seeping into his aching bones and washing the sweat and sand from his lyrium-lined skin.  He waded toward Hawke, stopping a short distance from his former lover, and closed his eyes briefly, letting the sway of the waves rock him back and forth.  The distant, persistent boom of the waves as they crashed into boulders further down the beach invaded his ears and interrupted his sense of peace.  Suddenly, he was back at Seheron, the sound of screams rising above the tossing tide.

 

 _The sizzle of magic flashed everywhere around him as he swung the heavy greatsword in powerful arcs, creating a swath of death before him.  Battle cries shot through the air as the Fog Warriors threw themselves at the mages behind him, only to become life-sized torches as fire magic engulfed them.  He led them all, a phalanx of magisters led by his master, slashing at his former friends at Danarius’s command.  The last thing he saw before their blood erupted over his armor was the shocked look in their eyes, the reflection of their burning comrades shining through the film of betrayal.  And through it all, his mind screamed his anguish, that even for these people who would have protected him, he could not break the chains of slavery.  Even as they died one by one at his feet, he knew the blood would never truly be washed off his bare soles; the red-stained footprints of his treachery would follow him forever._

 

“Fenris!”

 

He opened his eyes, unsure if the wetness on his cheeks was his or the ocean’s.  Hawke was standing next to him, one hand gripping his arm, forehead furrowed with worry.

 

“I’m okay.  Just… thinking.”  It was a lame response, and Hawke knew him too well to believe it, but the mage also knew when to let things go, and he did not press Fenris further.  He released Fenris’s arm reluctantly, one finger lingering in a caress before stepping back.  A small thing, that brush against skin, but it sent a flare of heat straight to his core.  For an instant, his longing for Hawke was a tangible thing, almost choking him in its intensity.  But then the water washed away the touch, leaving him bereft and alone once again.

 

They both moved further out to where the water rose to their chest.  Hawke leaned back and dunked his head, coming up with dark hair plastered against his skull, eyes closed with pleasure.

 

“Now this is bliss, isn’t it?” he said, smiling at Fenris, who was watching rivulets of water trail down Hawke’s neck, and _Maker,_ but he wanted to lick it _off_.  Visions filled his mind of pushing Hawke back to the beach and _taking_ him, fantasy conveniently removing Varric and Merrill from the picture.  Pain lanced through his palms as his fingernails dug into the calloused skin.

 

Hawke cocked his head, his eyes straying to a distant point behind Fenris.

 

“Um, I wouldn’t turn around if I were you.”

 

So, of course, he had to, playing the ignorant fool as he slowly turned to look at the ocean behind him, just in time to receive a vicious slap against his face as a very large wave broke directly over his head.  Salty water splashed into his eyes and up his nostrils, and he fell backward in the surf, his ass grinding into the sand beneath.  Sputtering, he rolled around, struggling to regain his footing as another smaller wave whacked his back, throwing him to his hands and knees.  He managed to push himself up, sneezing and coughing as the salt burned his eyes.

 

When he finally got most of the water cleared from his nose and mouth, he looked up to see Hawke with his lips pressed firmly together.  The corners of Hawke’s mouth quirked dangerously, and he let out a curious choking sound, which caused Fenris to narrow his eyes at him.  Finally, the dam burst and gales of laughter echoed across the beach as Hawke doubled over in mirth.  From behind them, Merrill’s high-pitched giggles were joined by Varric’s loud guffaws as Fenris turned to glare at them from beneath wet, silvery locks of hair.

 

A splash sounded from behind him, and he swiveled to see Hawke slapping his hand against the water in sheer hilarity.  The sight of this, of the usually serious mage giving in to such uninhibited happiness, loosened something inside Fenris.  It was as if a ray of sunshine had broken through a crack in the wall around his heart, and a strange warmth filled his chest.  Slowly, the frown relaxed and the angry creases in his forehead smoothed, as the warmth bubbled up in his throat.  And Fenris, in one of the few times in his short memory, threw back his head and _laughed_.

 

It felt _wonderful_ , like opening the door of an abandoned house full of dust and debris and letting in the sun and the clean breeze.  He laughed unabashedly, feeling all the pain buried deep inside lighten with each drawn breath.  The warmth danced along his skin and he felt washed in a comforting glow that spread outward to rejuvenate every tired limb.  _This_ was bliss, not the water or the hot sand or the shady palm trees, but the profound connection felt in the shared laughter of four friends, a delightful hiatus from the ever-present grind of killing and looting.

 

As the chuckles finally died out, Hawke moved to stand in front of Fenris and took the elf’s face between his hands in a rare display of public affection.  Fenris’s heart raced at the tenderness of the touch, but he held himself still, fully aware of Varric and Merrill watching from the beach.  Hawke didn’t seem to care, his eyes seeking only Fenris’s, his soft voice for Fenris alone.

 

“I will remember this moment whenever the darkness overwhelms me, and the sight of you laughing, so beautiful with your wet skin glistening in the sun, will sustain me through whatever dreadful path I must tread.”

 

Smiling, he released Fenris and began to wade back toward the beach, leaving the elf stunned and frozen in place.  His hands twitched and he _almost_ reached out to grab Hawke, to stop him and beg his forgiveness for deserting him that night two years ago.  For in those brown eyes, Fenris had seen the love Hawke still held for him, even after all that had happened, and his heart ached with a pain that nearly drove him to his knees.  But the moment passed, Hawke already out of reach and leaving the water to catcalls from Varric, who was tossing Hawke’s armor to him cheerfully.

 

Slowly, Fenris walked to the beach and dried with a towel given to him by a shy Merrill.  He tried _not_ to look despairingly at Hawke, to catch one last look at the splendor of Hawke’s nudity, and instead, quelled the ache inside with vicious determination.  He donned his armor and strapped his sword to his back, already missing the soothing coolness of the ocean.  Perhaps the next time they embarked on one of Hawke’s Beach Parties, they could do this again.

 

Varric took the lead, heading back up the rocky path toward Kirkwall with Merrill plodding after him, humming to herself.  Hawke paused, looking back at the beach wistfully as Fenris came up behind, shrugging his shoulders against the weight of the greatsword.  For a moment, they shared an intense look, all the longing of two years spread between them.  A calm expression crossed Hawke’s face, a decision made, and he leaned forward quickly before Fenris could react.  Chapped lips met surprised ones, and Hawke slipped a questing tongue into Fenris’s gasping mouth.  It was brief, a gentle slide of tongue against tongue, and then Hawke was moving away, his eyes conveying a whole world of emotion:  of acceptance and love, and most of all, forgiveness.

 

The pain of Seheron faded away in that look, along with the self-loathing Fenris had held deep inside his soul for his betrayal of the Fog Warriors and for his betrayal of Hawke.  Hawke _forgave_ him, whether or not he deserved it.  Even though he could not reach back in time to the bloody sands of Seheron, was there any possibility that the spirits of his benefactors could forgive him also?  Could there be any freedom from the bonds of guilt that bound him still?  The mute warmth in Hawke’s eyes seemed to say that _anything_ was possible if Fenris would only give it a chance.

 

Varric called to them impatiently, and Hawke gave him one last smile before trudging up the path after Merrill.  Fenris hesitated only briefly before following him, his mind swimming with something still wholly unfamiliar to him… hope.  Not all was lost; that had been proven with Hawke’s kiss.  The fear was still ever-present in his heart, but the walls _could_ be breached, and furthermore, he _wanted_ them to be, _wanted_ that connection he had felt today.  As Merrill’s singing floated back to him, a new song filled his heart, one that filled the bloody footprints in his memory with the laughter of the man he loved.


	5. A Healing Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Response to a prompt on the kmeme. OP wanted Hawke to comfort Fenris on a day when his markings are really hurting him. Massive thanks to zevgirl for her great beta work.

He should have known the letter was a fake.  After serving Danarius for so many years, hadn't he witnessed how devious the Magister could be?  The man was well-known for his cruelty, his preference for toying with his victims before finally striking in one vicious blow.  Of course, he would have discovered that his beloved apprentice, Hadriana, was dead at Fenris's hand.  He would know that his former prized slave was searching desperately for his sister.  Even from such a long distance, Danarius would not be able to resist dangling hope before Fenris's eyes, only to snatch it away with a goading laugh and a painful slap.

When the letter had arrived, Fenris had gone straight to Hawke.  There was no one else, no one he could trust with something this important.  Hawke had been there in that dank, moldy cave when Fenris had killed Hadriana.  It had been one of the few times that Fenris had seen the normally even-tempered Hawke in a rage that matched the tempest he had cast to destroy Hadriana's henchmen.  Even _Fenris_  had faltered just a little at the sight of Garrett Hawke lashing the slavers with fire and lightning, teeth bared in a snarl, eyes narrowed into angry slits.  Yet, in the midst of his fury, he had stepped aside before Hadriana, allowing Fenris to exact his own retribution on the apprentice who had caused him so much torment.

It was highly unlikely that Fenris could forget that day, more so for what occurred that night at the Hawke estate than what had happened in the holding caves.  That was the night Hawke had shown a former slave that a caress did not have to hold a promise of pain, that a kiss could be gentle instead of brutal and demanding, that a mage could induce pleasure through his lyrium tattoos instead of agony.  It was the first time that Fenris had ever allowed himself to grant a mage even a sliver of his trust, but by the end of that evening, Hawke had gained so much more than that.  Indeed, it was the onslaught of emotion that had engulfed Fenris that night that had driven him from Hawke's healing embrace.  He was not  _accustomed_  to such gentleness, had not _earned_  it, was not _worthy_.  Fenris was not an eloquent man; he had not the words to explain the confused turmoil raging inside him to a hurt and saddened Hawke.  So he had done what he seemed to do best; he had fled.

He expected a backlash, at the very least a calculated indifference, for it was no less than what he deserved.  But again, Hawke had surprised him.  There was no mention of that memorable night, no accusations, no pleas to discuss what had happened.  He had wanted some space to think about his feelings, and Hawke had granted him this.  As time passed, Fenris had expected him to move on, to choose another more worthy of his attentions.  As far as he could discern, that hadn't occurred.  Instead, Hawke continued to pursue Fenris in the most subtle and non-threatening way imaginable:  a lingering touch on the shoulder, a soft smile when no one else was looking at them, a bottle of wine left mysteriously by Fenris's bed at night, soothing words that calmed Fenris even in the most volatile of situations.  It left him confused, these reminders of Hawke's affection, and a little on edge because how could someone like him, damaged and filled with hate, possibly have anything to offer in return?

Yet, when the letter arrived, supposedly signed by his sister and promising a meeting at a secluded beach on the Wounded Coast, he had turned to Hawke.  No one else could possibly understand his  _need_ , his fervent  _desire_  to find his past and a connection to whatever place he had previously held in this world.  Hawke had not even hesitated; after Fenris's first stutters, his eyes pleading where his words could not, Hawke had snatched the letter from Fenris's trembling hand and perused it swiftly.  He had disappeared only long enough to grab his staff and then led Fenris straight to the Hanged Man, where they were joined by Varric and Isabela.  Together, the party had made their way as quickly as possible to the designated beach, only to find Danarius's clever deception waiting for them.

 

Fenris did not recognize the tall man with long, blond hair tied back in a leather thong, but he knew from the man’s staff that he was a mage.  As the man stepped forward to greet him, surrounded by mercenaries, Fenris drew his greatsword.

 

“Ah… Fenris.  So nice to meet you at last and so good of you to respond so promptly to my letter.”

 

Fenris hissed from between clenched teeth.  “And who are you?”

 

“Allow me to introduce myself.”  The mage smiled slowly, poison reflected in the depths of his blue eyes.  “I am Lazondis, your master’s new apprentice.”

 

“He wasted no time in replacing Hadriana, then.”  From behind him came the soft sounds of weapons being drawn from their sheaths.  There was a certain comfort in knowing he had Varric, Isabela, and Hawke at his back.

 

The mage chuckled lazily.  “She was obviously too incompetent for someone of Danarius’s status.  No matter, I am here to complete what she could not.”

 

Rage built from deep inside, and his tattoos began to glow with a menace.  “Then you will share her fate.”

 

It all happened faster than his mind could track.  Even as he rushed forward, swinging his sword in an arc above his head, he saw the mage raise his hand, almost _indifferently_ , so that his palm faced Fenris.  Too late, _far_ too late, Fenris saw the trickle of blood trailing in a crimson rivulet down the creased palm and onto the wrist.  Instinct seized his muscles and his heels dug into the sand, his toes desperately seeking purchase, but the mage was already lifting his staff.  A short cry clawed its way up Fenris’s throat as a familiar red haze clouded his vision, and time seemed to slow as he fell forward.

 

Every line of lyrium, every sinuous tattoo embedded in his skin, flared to life in a blaze of blue.  Flames of agony ripped through his body, forcing his back to bow and his fingers to clench into rigid claws of pain.  The world around him shrank to nothing; his only awareness was that of the fire consuming every inch of his skin, peeling it back to blacken the bones beneath.  The lines at his throat constricted his larynx like a leash, muffling the strangled cries of suffering into grunts.  Through it all, the crimson haze weaved into his mind, refusing to allow him the refuge of fainting.

 

There was no passage of time, only wave after wave of excruciating pain obliterating every thought.  He never heard the yells of fury or saw the storm of electricity that drove the mercenaries to their knees, crying for mercy.  But there would be no mercy from Hawke that day, no respite from his rage at seeing Fenris thrashing in the sand, enslaved by the blood magic controlling his tattoos.  The slavers received no compassion from Varric’s searing arrows or Isabela’s poisoned blades.  Within minutes, the battle was finished, the mercenaries lying in pools of blood and the unfortunate apprentice mage lying half-buried in the sand, skin blackened and robes still smoldering from Hawke’s magic.

 

The sickening tendrils of red faded from his mind, but the pain streaming through his tattoos did not.  He was dimly aware of a soft tenor calling his name, a warm hand laid against his cheek, but his teeth remained clenched in a rictus of agony and he could not respond.  A soft breeze brushed his chest, and he realized that his armor top had been removed.  Then there was pressure, gentle and soothing, and a coolness began to flow from the center of his chest outward.  It lapped like a cat’s tongue along each lyrium path in his skin, cold and refreshing, snuffing out the fire in his veins.  Slowly, ever so slowly, the pain eased as Hawke’s healing magic chased away the flames and relaxed his tightened muscles.

 

When he finally opened his eyes, three very anxious faces were hovering above him.  Hawke’s was the one he sought, those hazel eyes full of intense relief.  Hesitantly, Fenris slid a dry tongue across his parched lips and tasted the tang of his own blood where he had bitten himself in his pain.  His throat burned but he forced out a choked grunt.

 

“Hawke?”

 

“Fenris, are you okay?”

 

“By the Stone, I never want to see anyone in that kind of pain ever again,” Varric muttered as he slid Bianca back in her sheath.

 

Even Isabela looked shaken as she wiped her blades clean.  “Well, the screaming would be fine if it were from pleasure instead….”

 

Hawke helped Fenris to sit up.  The lyrium tattoos still burned and ached like welts from a whip, but at least he was no longer frozen in torment.  He ran shaky fingers through his hair and attempted to stand, stumbling against Hawke as he did so.

 

“Fenris, maybe we should wait a bit before moving on.  You don’t look so good.”  Hawke brushed at the sand on Fenris’s armor while the elf fumbled with the clasps on his open top.  He finally gave up with a grunt of frustration; his muscles simply refused to obey him.  Hawke moved forward and gently fastened the clasps, while Fenris looked away in embarrassment.  His gaze fell on the carnage spread across the beach, and he closed his eyes as disappointment clenched around his heart.  He had been a fool, endangering Hawke and his friends.  Then he had fallen helpless before the battle even began, and they had been forced to defend him.  The shame settled over his shoulders like a weighted cloak.

 

“I’m fine, Hawke.  Let’s move on.”  Hawke looked as if he would protest but shut his mouth quickly at the pleading gaze Fenris directed at him.

 

The trip back to Kirkwall was thankfully uneventful.  Pain continued to erupt through Fenris’s tattoos in small bursts, causing his steps to falter as he struggled to contain it.  Hawke stayed at his side, offering an arm for the elf to lean on when he was forced to stop and breathe through a particularly insidious bout of agony.  Varric and Isabela were miraculously subdued, probably afraid that Hawke would toss a fireball at the first person to make a joke at Fenris’s expense.  By the time they reached Kirkwall, the sun was setting, and Varric and Isabela took off for the Hanged Man, obviously relieved to get away from the ailing elf and the grim-faced Hawke.

 

By the time they reached Hightown, Fenris was nearly sagging from pain and exhaustion.  He barely even noticed where Hawke was heading until they were at Hawke’s doorstep, a startled Bodahn opening the heavy oak door for them.

 

“Why, Messere Hawke, Messere Fenris?  Is everything quite all….”

 

“Later, Bodahn,” replied Hawke shortly.  “Fenris is hurt, and I’m taking him upstairs to my room.  Please see that we aren’t disturbed.”

 

“Of course, Messere.”

 

 _Hawke’s room_?  Fenris feebly tried to pull back, unease causing him to briefly forget his pain.  He had not been inside Hawke’s mansion, let alone his _room_ , since the night they had spent together.  It wasn’t right to be here… what right did he have after being the one to turn away?

 

“Hawke, this isn’t necessary….”

 

“Shush, Fenris.  You’re still suffering, and I’m going to help.”

 

“But….”

 

“Fenris, be quiet and walk.  I can’t carry you or I would.”  Hawke gripped his elbow firmly and almost pulled him up the stairs.  “I know how stubborn you like to be, but I’m not having it tonight.”

 

Fenris could do little more than sputter as Hawke guided him inside the bedroom, shutting the door behind them.  Really, Fenris couldn’t remember Hawke ever being this… _commanding_.  If he weren’t so tired with his skin feeling like a hundred daggers were stabbing him, it would be almost arousing.  He shied away from the thought as Hawke pushed him toward the lavish four-poster bed.  _Not now_.

 

Hawke swiftly began to undo the clasps of Fenris’s top, eyes narrowed in concentration as his fingers tugged at the buckles.

 

“Hawke, what are you doing?”  Fenris was starting to feel as if this was one of those strange dreams he sometimes had after drinking too much wine before bed.

 

“I didn’t have enough time at the beach to fully heal you.  Whatever disgusting blood magic that thrice-damned mage used on you was too strong.  You’re still hurting and I’m going to fix it.”

 

“Hawke, I have been through this before with Danarius.  He often used my markings in such a way to punish me.”  He tried unsuccessfully to bat away Hawke’s hands.  “The pain will fade in time.”

 

“There’s no reason for you to suffer.  I can get rid of the pain _now_.”  Hawke blew out his breath in frustration and took Fenris’s face between his hands gently.  “Fenris, please.  Let me do this for you.  I still have your trust, don’t I?”

 

How to respond to such a question with those warm, hazel eyes practically _begging_?  Of course, Hawke had no idea that Fenris chastised himself each night, alone in his dingy house, for leaving that fateful night two years ago.

 

“You never lost it, Hawke.”  The words burst from his lips before he could bite them back.  Ah, but it was _worth_ it to see the pleased surprise on Hawke’s face.  The mage reached out, almost hesitantly, and laid the back of his fingers against Fenris’s cheek.

 

“Then let me help you.”  Fenris stood obediently still as Hawke removed his top, careful to avoid scraping the armor against the sensitive markings.  He guided Fenris to lie down across the soft blankets on his stomach, and crawled up to straddle the elf’s legs.  The position was more than slightly intimate and brought to mind a different evening, when clothes had been decidedly absent.  Fenris gritted his teeth and focused on the pain still seething under his skin, anything to erase those _thoughts_ from his head.

 

He nearly jumped when calloused fingers moved gently between his shoulder blades, applying a slight pressure.

 

“Fenris, you’re as tight as a bowstring.  I know you’re in pain but try to relax your muscles.  Here, I’ll massage them a little to help.”

 

Hawke’s fingers traced a path along both sides of Fenris’s spine, kneading in slow circles.  It was a struggle to hold still; Fenris had never been massaged before and the constant strokes made his hands twitch.  He focused on his breathing and buried his fingers in the blankets to steady himself.

 

“Maker, you have so many scars on your back….”  Hawke’s fingertips skimmed over the deformed lines that crisscrossed the otherwise smooth skin.

 

“I believe they came from being whipped when I was younger.  I don’t remember.”  Fenris felt himself beginning to relax beneath the soothing touch.  “Once I received the lyrium markings, there was no need for a whip.  The tattoos produced a much more… potent punishment.”

 

Hawke vented a hiss of anger.  “This Danarius isn’t going to live long once I meet him.  He won’t hurt you again, Fenris, I promise.”

 

There was a curious ache in his chest that had nothing to do with his earlier torture.  What had he done to deserve such loyalty from a man like Hawke?  He was a _nobody_ , a former slave with nothing to his name.  Fenris closed his eyes and pushed away the thoughts rife with doubt and self-mockery.  He didn’t want to think about his emotions just now.  His skin was still prickling and burning, but his muscles were melting under Hawke’s fingers.

 

Just as he began to sink into a rather pleasant, dulled state of mind, it happened.  Hawke’s hands had moved to his shoulders, and suddenly, a rush of coolness flowed from those expert fingertips into the lines of lyrium twining across his shoulders and down his arms.  The refreshing energy was followed by a tingling that moved slowly down each marking, chasing away the pain before it.  A clean scent filled the air, like the smell of grass after a heavy rain.  Fenris was so surprised by the unfamiliar sensation that he jerked, unconsciously flinching away from Hawke.

 

“Shh, it’s okay.  I’m healing you now.”  Fenris gasped as the tingling intensified, eyes widening as the energy began to pulse through each marking, causing them to glow a muted blue.  It was _amazing_.  His eyelids fluttered shut in pleasure as the tingling spread across his neck and down to his fingers.  Hawke shifted his palms forward and stretched his fingers over the top of Fenris’s chest.  His magic flowed down the lines that weaved around Fenris’s pectorals, humming a song that only lyrium could hear.  It was as if his skin had always been dead and was now coming alive.

 

Unfortunately, his cock was also becoming aroused.  The magic was stimulating much more than his markings, each pulse of energy going straight to the growing heat between his legs.  Fenris shifted his hips, dismayed at the thought of Hawke discovering that his attempt to heal was also giving Fenris a _very_ full erection.

 

“Fenris, hold still.  I’m trying to focus here.”

 

 _Hawke_ was trying to focus?  What about _Fenris_ struggling to _not_ focus on the pleasure slowly making its way down his body?  He no longer even had the pain to distract him; it was disappearing swiftly under the onslaught of Hawke’s magic _.  Breathe.  Not too fast.  Just slow and regular_. 

 

Hawke’s hands moved down, brushing feather-light against Fenris’s sides before returning to center at his lower back.  A fresh trickle of soothing coolness radiated across Fenris’s back and pushed delicately toward his stomach.  Beads of sweat were forming on the elf’s brow, and his fingers clenched in the lush blankets beneath him.  _So good_.  His cock felt like it was trying to drill a hole through the mattress.  Maker, he had to _stop_ this before he came right under Hawke’s healing hands.  He squirmed, trying to make room for his swollen length.

 

“Fenris!  _Stop_.  I’m nearly done.”

 

 _So am I, if I don’t get away from here_.  Then Hawke shifted, moving up to straddle Fenris’s thighs just below the tight curves of flesh that formed his buttocks.  The mage squeezed his knees together, effectively pinning Fenris to the mattress and unknowingly pressing Fenris’s aching erection further into the blankets, which were made of _velvet_.  Which did not help in the least.

 

Unable to move without heaving Hawke off his back, Fenris resigned himself to his fate.  There was no way he was going to admit to the mage that Hawke had him nearly mad with desire.  Clearly, Hawke was unaware of the effect he was having on Fenris, and if he was very still and very quiet, he might be able to get through it without Hawke knowing.  If he had any luck at all, of which he had plenty when he played cards, Hawke would be done very soon.  He just had to hang on until then.

 

Apparently, luck during card games didn’t extend to escaping mages bent on healing their victims straight to an orgasm.  Hawke was now directing his magic down the lyrium that ran along the backs of Fenris’s thighs and calves.  Fenris felt as if every inch of his skin was vibrating, and he could feel the pulse of his blood flooding his cock.  It was too _much_ ; feebly his hips bucked against the blankets, seeking friction even as his mind pleaded with his body, _stop this_.

 

“Damn, am I hurting you?  I’m nearly finished, I promise.”

 

Fenris let out a tortured groan, hoping it would sound more like ‘ _okay, no problem_ ’ than ‘ _please, I need **more**_ ’.

 

“Fenris, just relax.  It won’t hurt as much if you stop jerking like that.”

 

Everything around him was fading; he was lost in a haze of sheer ecstasy, pleasure rolling over his skin like a soft breeze.  He wasn’t going to make it; and he didn’t have the courage to ask Hawke to stop.  How could he possibly live with the shame?  Fenris slumped into the mattress, relinquishing the last of his control and letting Hawke have his way.

 

Heat coiled at the base of his spine, building and tightening like a snake about to strike.  He closed his eyes and went limp, his toes twitching as the tingling encompassed his bare feet.  A rushing sound roared in his ears.

 

“That’s better.  Almost done.”

 

And then Hawke shifted his hands, his wonderful, _talented_ hands, to the front of Fenris’s hips and sent one last surge of power along Fenris’s groin.

 

A veritable tsunami of ecstasy flooded every cell in Fenris’s body.  Wave after wave of shocking pleasure crashed over him as sparks flared white-hot behind his eyes.  Currents of heat swirled and eddied through his muscles as his body spasmed in the throes of a mind-numbing orgasm.  The pulsing of Hawke’s magic thrummed through his cock, pumping stream after stream of milky fluid into his pants.  By the time the sensations began to lessen, he lay utterly shattered, drowned in lethargy.

 

It took Hawke’s persistent voice, filled with concerned urgency, to bring him back to the surface.

 

“Fenris!  Maker, are you _okay_?  By Andraste, I’m so sorry if that hurt….”

 

A wild laugh threatened to burst from his chest.  Hawke had just given him the most intense orgasm in memory and he was worried that Fenris was _hurt_?

 

“Hawke, I’m fine.”  His voice was hoarse and shaky, but Hawke would most likely attribute that to the attack earlier.

 

His muscles had dissolved into liquid, seeping deep into the mattress.  There was no trace of pain left, but it was going to be impossible for him to leave this room without Hawke realizing what had happened.  The front of his pants was undeniably wet with his juices.  He thought with horror of Hawke’s face when he saw it, and the anxiety dragged him fully out of his pleasure-induced haze.  This was going to be _humiliating_.

 

The pressure on his thighs lifted, and he turned his head to see Hawke crawling off the bed.

 

“Maker, I’m hungry.  All that healing works up a good appetite.  Now that you’re feeling better, do you want something to eat?”

 

 _A clean pair of pants would be better_.  “No, thank you.”

 

“I’ll go make myself a sandwich then.  Be right back!”

 

Hawke left, leaving the door cracked open behind him.  Immediately, Fenris rolled off the bed, glancing down at himself nervously.  Yes, a damp spot had sprouted right between his legs.  He stifled a groan of frustration and rubbed at it frantically.  _No good_.  He needed to get out of there before Hawke saw him like that.  Spotting his shirt hanging over a nearby chair, he hastily pulled it on, not even bothering to fasten it.

 

He opened the door carefully and peered out.  There was no one in sight, but he could hear sounds from the kitchen, accompanied by Hawke’s voice humming a soft tune.  Moving stealthily, he padded down the steps, wincing as the bottom one creaked.  He froze, his head swiveling in a panic, but no one appeared and Hawke never paused in his song.  He slunk along the wall and past the desk into the foyer.  Amazingly, Bodahn didn’t suddenly rush forward and offer him a drink, and no wide-eyed Sandal smiled at him vacantly.  _I’m going to make it_.

 

Unfortunately, it really _wasn’t_ his lucky day.  As he reached out for the doorknob, it twisted suddenly and burst open.  A startled Orana stared at him, her arms full of bags spilling over with food.  Fenris backpedaled, almost falling in his haste to retreat from the surprised woman.  He regained his balance and quickly drew himself up in a haughty pose, clinging to what was left of his pride.

 

“Excuse me.” 

 

As he attempted to sidestep around her, her eyes drifted down and he saw them widen in shock.  He let out a strangled grunt and swept past her in a flurry of bristling armor.  Fortunately, it was night, and the dark shadows hid the deplorable state of his clothes.  He hurried down the streets of Hightown toward the run-down mansion he called home, wondering how he was ever going to face Hawke again.  The man had saved his life, spent a considerable amount of time healing him, and then Fenris had left without even a thank you _.  He will think me an ungrateful wretch_ , he thought miserably.

 

It wasn’t until he had reached his estate and firmly closed the door behind him that he realized he had left his sword in Hawke’s bedroom.

 

###

 

Hawke climbed the stairs slowly, balancing the tray of sandwiches in one hand.  In the other, he grasped a bottle of red wine, one of Fenris’s favorites.  Whistling softly, he entered his bedroom and halted just inside the threshold.  The elf was gone, his bed empty.  Hawke sighed and placed the tray and wine on his desk.  Fenris’s disappearance wasn’t totally unexpected.  He stepped over to the bed and scanned the blankets where Fenris had been lying.  The corners of his mouth crooked up when he spotted the damp stain across the wrinkled velvet.

 

It was really _more_ of a surprise that Fenris hadn’t caught on to Hawke’s intentions.  Well, to be honest, pleasuring Fenris hadn’t been his initial goal.  But once he realized the effect his magic was having on Fenris, he simply hadn’t been able to resist.  It had been two years since the night that haunted his every dream, and he wanted nothing more than to have Fenris in his arms again.  Never would he push, however; it had to be Fenris’s initiative.  The former slave had been given so few choices in his hard life that Hawke was loathe to force him into anything he didn’t truly want.

 

Tonight had given him an opportunity to give Fenris a moment of pleasure, without the elf being able to refuse.  He had reveled in Fenris’s reactions, enjoying every twitch and stifled moan while pretending to be innocently healing.  Hawke was a terrible actor, but poor Fenris had been so intent on hiding his arousal, he hadn’t even noticed.  The trip to the kitchen was part of the plan, a chance for Fenris to leave, if he so desired.  Hawke had fervently hoped that he wouldn’t, that perhaps Fenris would finally be able to talk about the suppressed emotion walled up inside him.  Clearly, he wasn’t ready yet, and Hawke would have to shelter the ache in his heart for a while longer.

 

He lay down on the bed next to the stain and ran his hand over it lightly.  Bringing his palm to his nose, he breathed in Fenris’s scent, the heady smell of his pleasure.  The muscles in his groin tightened with desire as the scent opened a flood of memories:  the graze of teeth against his lower lip, the flash of snow-white hair above emerald eyes, the drag of fingernails across his stomach, the rasp of a tongue against his shaft, the glow of blue, dancing along Fenris’s tanned skin.

 

Hawke rolled to his back with a groan and fumbled with his robes, sliding his hand inside.  As his palm closed over his length, he thought back to earlier when he had clasped his knees around Fenris’s thighs.  His very tight, _muscular_ thighs.  He began to stroke slowly, remembering the inviting curve of Fenris’s buttocks, the hot smoothness of his skin, the long ridges of his ribs beneath Hawke’s calloused hands.  His thumb skimmed the head of his cock, spreading the gathering moisture as his ears recalled the sounds Fenris had made:  the hoarseness of that velvety voice as Fenris said his name, the sharp gasps as he struggled to hide his arousal, the choked groan at the end when Hawke had felt the elf’s muscles spasm in ecstasy.

 

 _Ah, Fenris, when will you understand that I don’t care about your past?  It never mattered who you were, only who you are.  When will you realize that I long to give you the happiness you never had… the safety Danarius took from you… the right to love.  I would give you my heart if you would have it.  I would give you my soul._

 

With a gasp, his back arched, Fenris’s face fixed firmly in his mind.  His hand worked frantically, and he could almost _feel_ those lyrium-lined fingers stroking his cheek.  As the Fenris in his vision brushed his lips against Hawke’s, the mage dropped his head back, twisting into the blankets to muffle his cry as warm fluid gushed over his fingers.  He sank back to the mattress, breathless and sated, yet still as hollow as he had been when he had started.

 

After wiping his hand clean on a corner of the blanket, he rolled to his side, curling into himself beside the wetness left by Fenris.  The ache in his cock was satisfied, but the ache in his heart was not.  He closed his eyes, drifting at last into the Fade, where a smiling, green-eyed elf awaited him with an outstretched hand.


	6. Sweet Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a direct sequel to the previous chapter, "A Healing Touch." Many thanks to zevgirl for beta-ing this in the aftermath of Irene. She's awesome!

The moon hangs in the clear night like a silver sickle, and the stars shine crisp and bright in the cold air.  Winter has arrived in Kirkwall, and autumn’s last leaves rattle across the cobblestone streets of Lowtown before skittering into piles against the buildings.  Hawke barely notices them as he makes his way through the deserted market and toward the Hanged Man, his back bowed from the weight of its burden.  Fenris’s greatsword is obscenely huge.  Hawke is broad-shouldered and more muscular than most mages, but even for him, Fenris’s weapon lays across his back like a boulder.  It is strapped next to his staff, which resembles a twig compared to the sword.

 

He knows that Fenris will be at the Lowtown pub playing cards, as he does every week on this night.  Sometimes Hawke even joins in, although his abysmal skills usually result in an empty pocket.  If both Varric _and_ Isabela are present, there’s no point in even bidding, but it’s not the game that draws him anyway.  Although they all joke about being ‘Hawke’s crew’, there is no rank among the comrades.  Hawke values his friends, especially now, when the rooms of his estate echo with loneliness, his mother dead and his brother gone to the Gallows to wield the templar’s sword.

 

Entering the Hanged Man is like stepping into another world.  Laughter and loud voices filter through the smoke wafting from the lanterns on the rough, scarred walls.  Scantily clad barmaids weave through the tables and benches with expert dexterity, easily escaping the clutches of leering drunkards with no more than a shift of the hips and a jaunty wink.  Men and women alike hunker over their mugs of ale and whiskey, playfully slapping at each other while struggling to keep from falling on the sticky floor layered with years of grime and spilled liquor.  Hawke smiles affectionately to the bartender who scowls back and jerks his head at the stairs.

 

A twinge of nervousness deepens his breath as he climbs the steps, neatly sidestepping a snoring drunk sprawled against the wall.  He hasn’t seen Fenris since last night, when he managed to coerce the reluctant elf into allowing Hawke to give him a healing massage.  It had turned into much more than just a massage, however, and Hawke still has no idea how Fenris is feeling in the aftermath of Hawke’s efforts.  He really hadn’t intended for the evening to progress in the manner that it had, but the opportunity had been too perfect to resist.  He hopes fervently that Fenris is still unaware that Hawke knew exactly what effect his magic was having on Fenris last night.

 

He strides into Varric’s quarters to find most of his friends gathered around the stone table.  Merrill is leaning against Isabela, giggling while clutching a mug of ale.  Hawke is surprised to see Anders on her other side clutching a black kitten, which is batting at the feathers on his coat.  _The clinic must be closed tonight._   On the other side of the table sits Fenris, hand wrapped loosely around a bottle of red wine, bare feet tucked neatly beneath his chair.  As Hawke enters, Fenris shifts slightly and looks up at Hawke from beneath a fringe of snow-white locks.  His flinch is barely noticeable, but Hawke has become adept at scrutinizing Fenris’s movements:  the way his hands twitch when they’re empty, the slight bend at the knees when he’s preparing to attack, the roll of his shoulders after he sheathes his sword, the slight quirk of his lips when he’s amused.  There is no quirk tonight, and his eyes glance away from Hawke as if sliding off a sheet of ice.

 

“You’re right on time, Hawke,” says Varric, waving him to the empty chair beside Fenris.  “I didn’t even think you were coming tonight.  You’re later than usual.”

 

“Sorry.  I was helping Bodahn fix a few things around the house.”  He reaches back and unstraps Fenris’s greatsword with relief, his back cracking noisily as he straightens.  “Here,” he says, handing it to the elf.  “You left this.”  His fingers brush against Fenris’s as the elf grasps the pommel.  The slender, tanned hand twitches and triggers a memory:  _fingers twisting into red velvet as a desperate moan is bitten off, Fenris struggling to quiet himself while Hawke trails a palm full of healing magic over the sharp curve of Fenris’s hip…._   Hawke swallows and releases the sword reluctantly, unable to meet the green eyes that always leave him a little too breathless.

 

Fenris gives him a nod and easily hoists the sword over his shoulder, settling it in the sheath on the back of his armor.  “Thank you.”  His eyes flick hastily back to the bottle of wine, as if he is afraid it will topple without constant attention.

 

As Hawke seats himself next to Fenris, Isabela straightens and leans forward with a leer.  “Oh, and what were you doing over at Hawke’s, Fenris?  _Do_ tell.”  She rests her pert chin on a fist and licks her lips in anticipation.

 

“I was healing him, ‘Bela.”  Hawke slouches back in his chair casually, hoping to project just the right amount of indifference.  Fenris doesn’t move beside him; that decanter of wine is _terribly_ interesting.  “Don’t go getting any dirty ideas in your pretty little head.”

 

Isabela purses her full lips in a perfect pout.  “But you _know_ how I love dirty ideas, Hawke.  Really, you _disappoint_ me.”

 

“You’ll get over it.”  Hawke glances at Merrill, who is leaning her head on Isabela’s bronzed shoulder, forcing the linen tunic down the pirate’s arm.  “Seems like you’ve got plenty to occupy your attention, anyway.”

 

Merrill smiles at him dreamily, while Isabela fondly strokes the Dalish elf’s perky hair.  “Isabela is teaching me how to be a good drunk.  She says I need to act the part if I’m going to play cards.”

 

“Looks like you’re almost there, Merrill,” says Hawke with a chuckle.  “Deal me in, Varric.”

 

While Varric expertly slides the cards across the table, Hawke tells them about a job he has accepted.

 

“More slavers are hiding away in the caves at the base of the Sundermount.  They’re taking elves this time, probably to the Imperium.”

 

“So, let me guess.  You expect us to fall to our knees, begging to come along, right?” says Anders.  He drops a few cards as his cat scratches at his wrist for attention.  Cooing quietly to the feline, he retrieves them, but not before Isabela has taken note of the cards with a satisfied smirk.

 

“I can hardly rout the lot of them by myself,” says Hawke with a wink.  Anders glares back at him.

 

“Count me out, Hawke,” grins Isabela, cheerfully.  “I can already see a big, juicy hangover on my horizon tomorrow.”  She casts a sideways glance at Merrill, who is still leaning against her arm, hiccupping.  “I doubt Merrill will be up for it either.  You _know_ what even a teeny bit of ale does to her.”

 

“I’ll go, Hawke,” says Varric.  “Just make sure you get a reward this time.  We’ll bring Broody and Blondie with us.”

 

Fenris just stares down at his cards.  His eyes are hidden behind stray locks of hair, and Hawke still can’t get a read on his mood.  Anders scoffs under his breath, but simply shrugs as he downs a gulp of Corff’s latest poison.  Hawke proceeds to let the three of them beat him soundly by way of thanks.

 

The moon has set low in the sky by the time the companions shuffle down the stairs of the Hanged Man, Merrill supported by a grinning Isabela.  Anders tucks his pet beneath his coat to hide it from the bartender, who happens to have a distinct dislike for animals in his establishment.  A petulant yowl erupts from under the feathers, and Fenris gives Anders a look of disgust before following him down the steps.  Varric counts his winnings while Hawke slumps over the table with his head on his arms, contemplating the level of comfort that might be found in just sleeping right here on Varric’s table.

 

“You know, Hawke, you should just cast a sleep spell on him, drag him to your home, and let him wake up in your bed.  It would really simplify things.”

 

Hawke raises his head and blinks sleepily at Varric.  “What do you mean?”

 

“Don’t play dumb with me, Hawke.  If you stare any harder at Broody, you’re going to burn a hole right through his pretty, pointed ears.”

 

“I don’t stare,” mumbles Hawke, glaring down at a puddle of ale left behind by Merrill.

 

“Well, your subtle attempts at _not_ staring aren’t as subtle as you might think.”  Varric tips his mug back and finishes the contents with a satisfying gulp.  “But don’t worry, he’s no better at being sneaky than you are.”

 

Hawke glances up hopefully.  “He looks at me, too?”

 

“All the time.  Actually, it’s quite amusing watching the two of you try so desperately to act like you’re _not_ blatantly ogling every move the other makes.”  Hawke groans and drops his head to the table.  “Just tell him how you feel, Hawke.”

 

“I can’t push him, Varric.  He’s still learning how to make his own choices, now that he _has_ choices.  He knows how I feel; all I can do now is wait for him to come to me.”

 

Varric shakes his head.  “You’re a patient man, Hawke.”

 

Hawke pushes himself unsteadily to his feet.  The room tilts, and he sucks in his breath sharply, willing his equilibrium to settle.  Corff’s brew had been especially virulent tonight.  “He’s worth it, Varric.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

The stones under his feet blur into a sea of gray as he meanders back to Hightown.  As he passes Fenris’s mansion, he looks up, but the windows are dark as always.  He stares at the door for a long time, swaying slightly while beautiful, mossy eyes stare back at him in his liquor-fogged mind.  Finally, he turns away, the lingering taste of ale in his mouth as bitter as the regret in his heart.

 

###

 

The clouds swept in overnight, and the morning sky is heavy and gray.  As Hawke, Varric, Fenris, and Anders make their way to the Sundermount, the wind whistles harshly through the trees, the limbs stripped of their autumn finery.  All of them have dressed warmly for the weather, adding extra layers beneath their armor, except for Fenris.  The elf wears his usual leather armor with arms and legs exposed, feet bare against the cold ground.  Hawke wonders if the lyrium somehow offers protection against the icy air or if Fenris has somehow learned to adapt to temperature changes.  Whatever the reason, his smooth skin remains free of goose bumps, marred only by the beautiful lines of white that Hawke longs to trace with his fingers.

 

The caves they seek are close to where they found Hadriana two years earlier.  Anders grimaces as they descend down into the muggy, warm air of the subterranean passage.

 

“Is it just me or are we spending all of our time underground?  Why does every smuggler and slaver have to hide in dark, moldy caves with giant spiders?  Is it a job requirement?”

 

“Wanted for hire: scruffy, evil vagabonds that love underground environments.  Passion for arachnids a must.  Please see Tevinter slaver at Sundermount to apply.”  Varric chuckles as he draws Bianca from his back and ignores Fenris’s glare.

 

“Isn’t it a job requirement for Grey Wardens?” asks Hawke with a grin.  He casts a wisp that floats in the air before them to light their way.

 

“No, the only prerequisite for becoming a Warden is being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” replies Anders.  He grunts as a huge cobweb drifts over his face and slaps it away with a shudder.

 

Fortunately, the cave isn’t very deep, and they don’t have to travel far before reaching what appears to be the main room.  One end of the cavern holds a long, heavy stone bench to which several elves are chained with steel manacles.  Several campfires are scattered around the cave, filling the musty air with hazy smoke.  Heavily armored men huddle around the fires, eating hunks of meat with greasy hands.

 

It’s a lone guard standing watch over the elves who sounds the cry of alarm.  By that time, Bianca is already spitting out a hail of arrows over the cavern, while Anders casts glyphs of paralysis around the campfires.  Fenris sprints toward the rush of scrambling slavers, silent and swift as he fades into the transparent glow of lyrium ghost.  His sword flickers wildly in the electric sparks of Hawke’s tempest as he swings it in deadly arcs.  Flashes of blue light up his snarling face as Anders casts his heals around the warrior in swirling currents.

 

Later, Hawke has no memory of how he and Fenris become cornered in a small alcove in the back of the cavern.  Anders is occupied with protecting Varric, who is surrounded by a circle of slavers wielding axes.  Hawke follows Fenris toward the back of the cave, casting healing and regeneration spells while flicking lightning at the enemy warriors that Fenris is attempting to herd against the wall.  Neither of them notices the slaver mage standing on a nearby ledge watching Fenris with narrowed eyes.

 

Hawke is standing behind Fenris when he feels the shock wave against his back, throwing him against Fenris, who is likewise tossed forward against the wall.  Both of them scramble quickly to their feet, only to be driven backward as huge sheets of rock collapse from the walls around them.  A strong arm encircles Hawke’s waist and throws him to the ground, a leather-clad body curling protectively over his as rocks fall over them in a cloud of dust.

 

After an indeterminable amount of time lying pressed against the dirt, the sounds of crashing stone end in a deathly silence.  Fenris shifts above him, moving his weight off Hawke as the mage struggles into a sitting position, coughing up the dust clogged in his throat.  Complete darkness surrounds them; Hawke can’t even discern the white of Fenris’s hair, although he hears the harsh breathing next to him.  He gropes out with his hands, only to find that they are completely enclosed in a prison of rock.  There isn’t even enough room to stand or lay flat, and he is forced to sit against the wall with his back crunched forward, knees drawn up slightly to make room for Fenris, who crouches between his legs.

 

Hawke has never been claustrophobic but being buried under a barrage of immovable stone is less than comfortable.  He hears Fenris grunting and realizes that the elf is trying to push against the rocks in an effort to free them, but to no avail.  He reaches around in the dirt but cannot locate his staff; it’s probably buried under the rocks as well.  Panic closes around his lungs like a vise and he shuts his eyes, struggling to control the rapid gasps that heave from his chest.

 

“Hawke.”  In the tiny space, Fenris’s deep voice echoes in a deep, soothing rumble.  He hears a small rustle and feels Fenris move across his legs, straddling them and moving closer to sit in Hawke’s lap.  A hand presses gently against his chest, the sharp gauntlets pricking at the fabric of his robes.  “Relax.  The others will get us out.”

 

As if on cue, faint shouts filter through the rocks and Hawke swivels his head blindly, trying to locate where they’re coming from.

 

“Varric!  Anders?”  His voice is hoarse and ragged from coughing.

 

“Hey!  Hawke!  You guys okay?”  Varric’s yell has never sounded so beautiful.

 

“We’re trapped!  The rocks won’t move!”

 

“Listen, Hawke!  We’re going to go get help.  The slavers are dead; they won’t be giving us any problems.  Just stay there, and we’ll be back soon!”

 

Hawke forces a weak laugh.  “I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere!”  He slumps down further so that he can straighten his neck and rest his head against the wall.  Fenris shifts with his movement, likewise trying to get comfortable.  Concern for the elf lessens his panic.

 

“Fenris, you all right?”

 

“It is… cramped in here, but I will be fine.”  Fenris pushes his knees under him and settles awkwardly into Hawke’s lap, hands braced against the wall for support.  “I apologize for… the position.”

 

Until that moment, Hawke hasn’t really noticed the sudden intimacy imposed on them by the enclosed space.  Suddenly, he’s acutely aware of Fenris’s weight against his thighs and the hot breath close to his neck.  He reaches out to steady Fenris, noting that the proximity of the rocks above is forcing Fenris to curl over Hawke.  Only his hands pressed against the wall on either side of Hawke’s head keep him from lying against Hawke’s chest.

 

“It can hardly be helped, Fenris, and your arms are going to tire if you keep holding yourself up like that.  Just relax.”

 

He hears a resigned sigh, a puff of warm breath against his neck, and Fenris sinks forward against his body, soft hair tickling Hawke’s neck as Fenris lays his head on Hawke’s shoulder.  _Maker, maybe this was a bad idea…._   A warm pressure rests against his groin, Fenris’s hips meeting his, and even in such a dangerous place, he feels a flush heating his cheeks.  _Now is definitely not the time for this,_ he reprimands his body.

 

He must have tensed against his body’s unwanted reaction, because Fenris turns his head up, the elf’s nose brushing against his jaw.

 

“Hawke?”

 

“I’m fine,” he reassures Fenris quickly.  _Just lying here with the man I love pressed right up against me, and I can feel **everything**_.  He swallows hard before realizing that Fenris would most certainly _hear_ it, his head right beside Hawke’s neck.  Even so, Hawke isn’t prepared for the touch, the fingers that quest lightly over his throat, causing his chest to heave slightly against Fenris as his breath hitches. It’s the _gentleness_ , the way the calloused finger pads tenderly stroke over the taut tendons in his neck, which affects him most.  After all, it has been a very long time since Fenris has touched him like this, not since the night of Hadriana’s death.

 

He holds perfectly still, afraid that even the slightest movement will break the spell, afraid that even a sharp breath might send the elf flinching back into the shell he has worn since fleeing Hawke that night.  He has longed for this for two years, for Fenris to find his way through the tangled confusion of his emotions to the place where Hawke waits.  If it is now, in this dark, confined prison, so be it.  He closes his eyes as Fenris caresses his throat and trails his fingers down to rest on the heavy curve of Hawke’s collarbone.

 

“I would like to ask a question, if I may.”  Hawke twists his head toward that voice, that achingly smooth bass that makes him shiver.  His lips brush against silky hair, and he holds himself there, allowing Fenris to feel the heat of his breath as he replies.

 

“Yes?”

 

“You knew, didn’t you?”

 

“Knew?”  His fingers dig into the dirt nervously.  The head beneath his chin shifts, and he feels those piercing emerald eyes staring him down in the darkness.

 

“What you were doing to me.  Two nights ago.”

 

 _Uh oh_.  He swallows again, leaning his head back from that invisible gaze, heart suddenly pounding.  “Yes.”  There is nowhere to run here, no place to escape that question.

 

“Why?”  Fenris is as still as the stone around them.  _Is he angry?_   Hawke cannot read those eyes in the darkness, cannot read the expression on Fenris’s face.  His question is a valid one, but Hawke feels the threads of fate weaving around him tightly.  If he answers this wrong, he might lose Fenris, so what should he say?  He keeps his head bowed over Fenris’s hair, wanting so much to stroke it, but he knows he needs to be careful right now.

 

“I would never push my desires on you, Fenris.  You have wanted your space, and I’ve tried to give you this.  But… I’m just a man, a man who wants to give you what no one has.”  He allows one hand to slide against Fenris’s hip, just resting there lightly in reassurance, and Fenris doesn’t shove it away.  “The choice has always been yours, my dear friend.  But that doesn’t mean I won’t take an opportunity to give you whatever happiness I can.”  It is all he can say; it is the truth.

 

The silence is almost deafening with all the words left unspoken.  Now is not the time for a speech or eloquent words of love.  Simplicity has always been Fenris’s way; it is what he appreciates, what he surrounds himself with in his dilapidated home in Hightown.  Hawke knows this, has spent years learning it and loving Fenris all the more for his disdain of anything excessive.

 

A blue glow slowly chases away the night around them as Fenris spends a little of his energy to light their tiny space.  His eyes find Hawke’s and they are unshielded, pupils dilated with wonder and curiosity.  The activated markings cause Hawke’s skin to prickle, and he struggles to remain still even as his magic surges forth with uninhibited lust for the lyrium.  He remembers the way Fenris gasped under his touch during the massage and feels just an inkling of what Fenris must have endured as Hawke sent his magic through those tattoos.  Those markings are having a similar effect on him now, rushing through him with a flush of heat and pleasure.

 

Fenris shifts, uncurling his spine and leaning forward slightly.  When his lips brush Hawke’s, the mage groans and opens to him, parting his lips as Fenris slides a questing tongue against his.  Apparently, he has said the right thing after all.  A wave of dizziness leaves him lightheaded, and his hands grab onto Fenris’s armor, anchoring himself as Fenris plunders his mouth like a man starved.  Spiky fingers delve into Hawke’s hair, scraping gently against his scalp and he gasps into Fenris’s mouth, begging wordlessly for _more_.

 

Tender lips slide down over Hawke’s jaw, tongue caressing the racing pulse jumping beneath hot skin.  Hawke is shaking, overcome with arousal and emotion both.  Fenris rolls his hips forward, and Hawke can feel the elf’s erection slide against his own, so tantalizing behind stretched cloth.  His fingers skitter up Fenris’s back and fist into short, silky locks, and he thrusts up helplessly, consumed with a desire that has been suppressed for far too long.

 

There is a deep chuckle, a sudden vibration against his neck, and Hawke goes still.  His mind fights to overcome the heavy cloud of pleasure fogging his thoughts, and the hint of a question breaks through.

 

“Wait a minute.  Is this your revenge?”  Hawke feels the smile against his collarbone and chokes off a wild laugh, a surge of joy pressing back the darkness even more successfully than the lyrium.

 

“Perhaps.  It certainly seems to be having an effect, does it not?”  Fenris raises his head, and Hawke sees the smirk, the mirth in the depths of wide, emerald eyes.  The sight of Fenris being _playful_ is more than he can bear, and he pulls the grinning mouth against his own and just… _devours_ him.  The fear of rejection disappears beneath the raw energy sparking between them, and Hawke suddenly cannot get enough of tasting Fenris, caressing that smooth caramel skin with its ridges of tattoos, hearing those low moans that make his length jerk with need.

 

He pulls at Fenris, shifting his knees apart and cupping the elf’s rear with his hands.  They begin to rock in the small space the rocks allot them, pelvis against pelvis, erection against erection.  Dimly, he knows that their clothes will suffer for this, that their actions will be on display for the others to see later, but strangely, this only arouses him more.  His fingers dig into Fenris’s buttocks, and Fenris bucks sharply into his lap with a gasp.

 

If this is a dream, he doesn’t want to wake.  If they die here, if the rocks collapse around them, then at least he will have this, this physical acknowledgment of his love for Fenris.  He is deliriously happy, and he wants to ride this wave of joy forever.

 

Forever ends far, far too soon.  Above the delicious sound of their moans comes a shout from across the barrier surrounding them.  Fenris jerks, twisting so fast that he bangs his head against the rocks above them and curses loudly.  The light of his tattoos dies, plunging them once more into darkness.  Hawke groans in frustration, his erection already going flaccid as they hear Varric calling to them.

 

“Hawke, we’re back!  Are you okay?”

 

Hawke sighs and yells back.  “Yes!”

 

Voices rumble through the stone, and Anders shouts.  “Hawke!  Cast a barrier around you!  We’re going to move the rocks!”

 

Hawke pulls Fenris back against his chest and murmurs a few words while gesturing with one hand.  A faint light shimmers around them in a translucent sphere.  Fenris gasps and flinches against the magic’s effect on his markings.  This is not healing magic, with its soothing warmth; this is a harsh power, strong and forceful.  It isn’t painful, but the close proximity of the shield to Fenris is as uncomfortable as needles scraping against his skin.

 

“I’m sorry,” Hawke says softly and wraps an arm around Fenris, his other hand moving to the nape of Fenris’s neck, where he begins to stroke the tender skin in soothing circles.  Fenris relaxes slightly, resting his forehead on Hawke’s shoulder.  An ache forms in Hawke’s chest, a different warmth than he was feeling earlier.  He can feel Fenris’s trust, so difficult to give in the face of the magic he hates, and it is a gift worth more than any number of sovereigns.

 

The rocks around them begin to shift and fall away.  Light from torches penetrate the darkness and faces begin to appear, faces with slanted eyes and pointed ears.  Their rescuers are the Dalish; Varric must have gone to them because they were the closest to the caves.  The elves have long poles and ropes, and with the help of Anders’s magic, they slowly remove the pile of stone, piece by piece.

 

Once the barrier is decimated and Hawke lowers the shield, Fenris stands, using Hawke’s shoulders to support his shaky legs.  The loss of weight on his thighs is both a relief and a disappointment.  Already, he misses the closeness, the connection that was made.  Anders walks over and offers his hand, pulling Hawke up with a strength that Hawke often forgets Anders has.  The blood rushes back to his legs, and Hawke grimaces at the prickling pain.

 

“Fell asleep, did they?”  Anders smiles and casts a rejuvenation spell that cools the discomfort.  Varric walks up and grins at Hawke.

 

“I’m starting to think you’re one of Anders’s cats, Hawke.  You must have nine lives to keep surviving these kinds of incidents again and again.”

 

Hawke gives a weak laugh.  “I think I’d prefer to not have any more incidents at all, thank you very much.”  He glances over at Fenris, who is brushing the dust off his armor.  “This one wasn’t so bad though.”

 

Varric gives him a shrewd look but wisely says nothing.  Hawke approaches the Dalish and thanks them profusely for their aid, promising to return the favor by helping them in the future.  Finally, after what seems like hours, they exit the caves under the gloomy sky, the wind still bitingly cold as it ruffles their hair.

 

“I’m so glad to get out of that hole, I don’t even care that it’s cold,” grumbles Anders.  “Please tell me we won’t have to go on any more underground adventures, Hawke.”

 

“Depends on the amount of money involved,” says Hawke, flashing him a weary grin.

 

They arrive in Kirkwall just as the night lanterns are being lit, and Varric and Anders head home amidst glorious thoughts of a hot bath.  Fenris and Hawke take the mostly deserted streets to Hightown, walking silently side by side.  The awkwardness that had grown between them over the past few years has been replaced by a quiet understanding.  Hawke can sense that Fenris hasn’t quite reached the point of openly declaring his feelings, but it doesn’t matter.  He now knows there is hope, that even though the elf is dealing with demons from his past, Fenris does care for Hawke.  It is enough.  Hawke is a patient man.

 

A sliver of moonlight breaks through the clouds and reflects brightly off Fenris’s hair.  _Maker, but he is beautiful_.  Fenris offers him a shy smile and clears his throat.

 

“Sleep well, Hawke.  I will see you, tomorrow?”

 

 _He wants to see me tomorrow_.  “Of course.  Maybe we can do something other than these endless petty quests?”

 

Fenris’s lips quirk in that endearing way Hawke loves.  “That would be greatly appreciated.”  He turns to his house but then hesitates for a moment, bare feet swiveling back to Hawke.  He darts a quick glance from beneath errant locks of hair and then leans forward quickly to plant a soft kiss on Hawke’s mouth.  By the time Hawke opens his eyes, savoring the kiss for as long as he can, Fenris has disappeared behind the closed door of his mansion.

 

Hawke walks the short distance to his own home, his heart a light, feathery thing beating rapidly in his chest.  He pauses at his door to look up at the sky, where the clouds have finally parted enough to reveal the moon.  It no longer resembles a sickle, but instead, a wide gaping smile to match the one on Hawke’s face.


	7. To Mend a Heart

Hawke digs a broken fingernail into the minute crack of the granite tabletop and traces it until it disappears under the mug of ale sitting before him.  The mug is as yet untouched and has been since Varric set it there two hours ago.

 

“Drink, Hawke.  Corff’s brew may be vile but it’ll numb the pain better than elfroot.”

 

Then Varric had returned downstairs to supervise the cleanup of the wrecked barroom.  Hawke can still smell the sweet stench of charred flesh wafting from below, but it barely permeates the veil of darkness that clouds his mind.  He has no desire to drink or drift into an alcoholic stupor.  The pain is sharp, locking him immobile in the frigid stone chair, but it’s better than _nothing_.  He embraces the pain, every nuance of despair amplified tenfold, because when it is gone, all that will be left is a chasm of desolation, and he can’t bear the thought of it.

 

 _We should be celebrating our victory_.  Danarius is dead; the only corpse not shriveled into scorched tissue and blackened bone.  Hawke’s magic had consumed the slavers who accompanied the magister, incinerated them with power of a magnitude that Hawke rarely unleashed.  Danarius’s spiteful words to Fenris had incited a maelstrom of rage, and Hawke hadn’t held back, except when it came to Danarius himself.  He had left the magister to Fenris, had known the elf’s need to exact his revenge.  Now Danarius lay sprawled across the blood-soaked floor of the Hanged Man, his heart crushed and left abandoned next to the lifeless body.  Well, Varric’s crew had probably removed it by this time, tossing it into the bay along with Lowtown’s other trash.  _Good riddance_.

 

It might have ended then, except that Varania still huddled in the corner of the tavern, wide-eyed and clearly terrified of her brother.  Hawke doubted that she had ever seen such a display of Fenris’s power before, and when Fenris had turned murderous, jade eyes on her, she had probably believed her fate would be to join Danarius.  It might have been, except Hawke had intervened when Fenris had raised one glowing hand to his sister.

 

“She’s your family, Fenris.  Consider before you do this.”  Hawke’s voice was soft, but it broke through the tempest of Fenris’s fury in a way that nothing else could have.  Even here, in the midst of cold vengeance, Hawke’s presence was a soothing warmth at Fenris’s back, an intimate connection deeper than any layer of skin.  It halted Fenris’s attack, brought clarity back to Fenris’s hate-infused thoughts.

 

“You… betrayed me.”  Through the anger, Hawke heard the thread of honest bewilderment, and his heart ached for Fenris.

 

“Danarius promised me apprenticeship.  A life better than the one you left me with.”  Relieved of impending death, Varania was filled with her own fury, and the venom in her voice caused Fenris to take a step back.  It was just one step, but Hawke could feel Fenris’s surprise in the motion.

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“You left us with _nothing_ , Leto.”  She spat the name at him, smiled maliciously at the spark of recognition in his face.  “You remember now?  Your name is _Leto_ , but he named you Fenris.  His wolf, his _pet_.  You were _favored_ , not left penniless and cold on the streets!”

 

“You think I wanted that life?”  Fenris was recovering now, bitterness returning in the clenching of his fists.  “A life of slavery?”

 

“You _did_ want it!  You entered a competition to win the right to be Danarius’s wolf, killed all the others to get those lyrium brands.  You claimed you did it for me and Mother, to free us.  That was the prize, you see.  You could ask for any boon you wished, and you asked for our freedom.  Like it was a gift!”  She was shaking, a loose tendril of fiery hair brushing against a flushed cheek.  “Do you know what freedom was, Leto?  It was huddling in the cold alleys, hoping to escape the notice of bandits and thieves.  It was begging in every shop for work, but free elves aren’t wanted for hire in Tevinter, Leto.  It was watching Mother die from sickness because no healer would tend to an elf with no money.  You killed her!”

 

“Now see here, miss….”  Varric stepped forward as a horrified silence blanketed the pub.  Even Hawke was frozen before the spectacle of an enraged Varania, and Fenris…. _Maker_ , he couldn’t even bear the pain in Fenris’s eyes.

 

“I didn’t know.  I didn’t….”  He reached out to her, not to harm but to entreat, to beg, and Fenris _never_ begged.

 

“And now, you’ve destroyed this, too!”  Tears streamed down Varania’s face as she backed away from her brother.  “Enjoy your freedom, Leto.  May it give you as much happiness as it gave Mother and me.”  And she was gone, swallowed by the night lit only by cold stars shining in the great emptiness overhead.

 

If Hawke had cast a paralysis glyph over the Hanged Man, it would have had no better effect than the current stillness in the tavern.  Even Anders was silent, for once keeping his stinging barbs to himself.  Fenris was staring blankly at the floor, and the void in his eyes is what finally pushed Hawke to speak.

 

“Fenris….”  He reached out to touch the leather-clad arm, but Fenris jerked, pulling away from Hawke so roughly, he threw the mage off balance.

 

“I… cannot be here.  I cannot.”  And then he was gone, a vanished shadow that took the light from Hawke’s heart with him.

 

Hawke didn’t remember going up the stairs or sitting down at Varric’s table.  One of his friends must have brought him here, but he can’t recall which one.  For the past two hours, he has sat at this table, letting the cold seep from the stone into his soul.

 

“Hawke.”  Varric appears from the stairway and sits beside him with a grunt.  “Have you even moved since I brought you that ale?”

 

“Don’t know,” mumbles Hawke.

 

Varric sighs, and Hawke finally raises his eyes to look at him.  When had Varric developed worry-lines at the corners of his mouth?

 

“Hawke… what happened down there… that was bad.  Family hurting each other is bad business.  I ought to know.  But Broody is tough, and I think he’ll pull through.”

 

“He left, Varric.”  Hawke’s nails scrape futilely against the rough granite.  “He’s gone.”

 

“Hmm.  He’s probably holed up in that shack he calls home.”

 

“He’s not.  Isabela went and checked.  He’s not there, she told me.”  The pirate had told him the news with uncharacteristic melancholy.  Hawke didn’t even remember if he had thanked her.

 

“Then he’s probably wandering around Kirkwall kicking cats and slashing flowers with those claws of his.”  At Hawke’s narrowed gaze, he lays a hand on Hawke’s arm.  “Look, Hawke.  We all know how you feel about Broody.  If he’s gone, we’ll find him.  We’ll _all_ help find him, okay?  It’s not like that glowy elf can just melt in with the crowd, you know.”

 

Hawke puts his hand over Varric’s but has to look away so the dwarf won’t be embarrassed at the moisture in Hawke’s eyes.  “You’re a good friend, Varric.  Thank you.”

 

“Don’t mention it.  Now go home and get some rest.  We’ll look for Broody in the morning.”

 

The streets are full of shadows, the glitter of eyes following his path from the Hanged Man to Hightown.  No one is desperate enough to attack the Champion, however.  Hawke remembers laughing about his reputation with Fenris only a week ago during one of their evening strolls.

 

"It's strange to think that I don't need to worry about being mugged anymore," he had said, intentionally leaning down a little closer than necessary to Fenris's ear.  "If they ganged up on me, they could take me down easily, but it never seems to occur to them."

 

Fenris's voice was steady, but Hawke felt the elf shiver as his warm breath heated Fenris's ear.  "Are you saying you _want_ to be attacked, Hawke?”

 

“Well, no… but I have you to protect me, don’t I?”  The corner of Fenris’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, and Hawke straightened with a grin of victory.

 

The connection formed during the cave-in two months ago had strengthened into a close friendship between Fenris and Hawke.  The barrier that had separated them since the night Fenris had fled Hawke’s bed had been steadily crumbling to be replaced by trust.  Physically, they had not progressed beyond sensual kisses and teasing caresses, but Hawke was too dizzy with happiness to care.  He knew that what had happened the night of Hadriana’s death had frightened Fenris; the fleeting memories in the height of ecstasy had driven him into a rage of frustration.  Fenris was still feeling his way back from that pain, and Hawke refused to rush him.  Fenris would let him know when he was ready, and until then, Hawke could wait.  He had already waited nearly three years.

 

Now, all that had been gained in two months was lost.  Fenris had faced his worst enemy only to find that it wasn’t Danarius.  The past had reared its vicious head in the form of Varania, and it was she who had defeated Fenris and sent him fleeing into the dark.  _Maker, the look in Fenris’s eyes when she told him about his mother…._    It was the same haunted look Fenris had given Hawke just before he fled Hawke’s bedroom three years ago.  _And now he’s gone again_.

 

The foyer of his estate is cold and dark when he enters, but the fireplace is still lit in the main room beyond.  Bodahn has arranged the mail on his desk, and Orana has left a small tray of fruit and bread on the sideboard.  He barely glances at the food, and the mail can wait until the next day.  Exhaustion and sadness weigh heavy on his shoulders, and he climbs upstairs trailing listless fingers along the polished banister.  A soft, flickering glow emanates from his room, and he’s glad to see that Bodahn has left his hearth alight.

 

He is already removing his leather gloves as he enters and freezes, heart lurching forward as he struggles to calm his breath.  Fenris stands before the small fireplace, resting his forehead against one gauntlet that is pressed against the mantle.  His other hand twitches at his side as Hawke enters, but other than that, he doesn’t move.  The shifting flames outline the silhouette of his bowed back, throwing spiked shadows on the wall in gargantuan proportion to the ridges of his armor.

 

“Fenris?”  Hawke means to sound strong and reassuring, but the word sticks in his constricted throat.  “Or is it Leto now?”

 

“Leto is dead.”  A shriek rips through the silence as Fenris clenches his hand into a fist and the claws of the gauntlet scrape against the stone of the hearth.  “Whatever it was that he did… it wasn’t enough.  Whoever he was, there is no one left who cares.”

 

“But there is still Fenris, and Fenris is free.”

 

Fenris uncurls his spine from the defeated hunch he has assumed, but he doesn’t turn around and darkness hides his face.  “I thought I understood what freedom meant, but reality is nothing like the idea.  My ignorance destroyed my family.”

 

Regret is such a wistful, vicious tease, and Hawke knows it intimately.  It ate a deceitful path through his soul when his mother was murdered, and for months, he truly believed her death was the result of his negligence.  It was Varric who pulled him from that abyss in the lonely days that followed, Varric because Fenris had never known the words to assuage grief and thus had been unable to help.  Now, Fenris teeters also on the brink of despair, but Hawke will not let him fall.

 

He moves without thought, robes brushing silently against muddy boots, until he stands directly behind the frozen elf.  “You gave them opportunity, a gift.  What happens beyond the act of giving is not for you to decide.  Leto did what he could and sacrificed himself in doing so.  Fenris was born, and now it is your choice where Fenris goes from here.”

 

“To be honest, I hadn’t thought much beyond killing Danarius.  Perhaps I never believed that I would get this far.”

 

“Then it’s time to face forward and not backward.”

 

Firelight dances along the silver strands of Fenris’s hair as he swivels his head to the side.  “Face what, Hawke?  I have no family and no home.  Where do I go from here?”

 

Hawke inhales slowly and makes the decision to bare his heart.  “You’re already _here_ , Fenris.  If you want it, _this_ is your home.  If you want _me_ , I have already been yours since you first asked me for help.”  Hawke reaches out tentatively, placing one hand at the nape of Fenris’s neck.

 

“Then it’s not….”  Beneath his fingers, Hawke can feel the muscles of Fenris’s throat work, pushing against the ache lodged there.  “It’s not too late?”

 

 _Oh, my love_.  Hawke presses cracked, chapped lips to the place where his hand rests.  “Too late?  I’ve been _waiting_ for you, Fenris.”  His lips curl up slowly.  “Have the past two months not proved that?”

 

Just like that, the tension fades, seeps away like ice melting into warm, green grass.  Fenris turns his head even more to meet Hawke’s gaze, and the emerald of his eyes remind Hawke of the sea and a time when Fenris’s laughter rang across the surf and sand.

 

“I have allowed my fears of the past to make my choices.  I will do so no longer.”

 

It is all the answer Hawke needs, and his fingers do not falter as he removes Fenris’s armor piece by piece, refusing to allow the elf to move as he does so.  The Maker knows he has been patient, has _longed_ for this, and he will do this now at his own pace.  The hardened leather and woolen robes fall to the floor, their protection no longer wanted.

 

It is a versatile thing, skin, with so many different textures:  coarse like sandstone, smooth as a silken kerchief, covered with fine hairs that tickle your fingers as you drag your nails through them.  Fenris’s skin is none of these; it is its own unique character, tough like leather, yet supple as doeskin.  Raised trails of white follow hard lines of muscle, and if you are a mage, you can actually feel the tingle of lyrium in those lines, like a hum of desire.  Hawke never forgets that it is a privilege he has been granted, to be allowed to touch those tattoos that have brought Fenris so much pain.  It is a gift that he can bestow, to layer those distant memories with newer ones, laced with pleasure instead of agony.

 

He presses his lips against the nape of Fenris’s neck, tasting sweat and the faint tang of lyrium.  He feels the elf’s reaction, a clench of muscle, little more than a spasm and a twitch of the hand.  Hawke traces the ridge of Fenris’s spine with his tongue, lavishing warmth against skin suddenly pebbled with goose bumps.  When he reaches that hollow between the shoulder blades, he rests his forehead there, just breathing deeply of Fenris’s scent, the growing musk of arousal.  It is intoxicating, and he rests a hand on Fenris’s hip to steady himself against a sudden wave of dizziness.

 

Fenris tilts his head back, resting the base of his skull against the top of Hawke’s head.  He stretches back one arm, seeking, and finds Hawke’s free hand, twining his fingers with Hawke’s.  They stand like this for a long minute, simply resting in closeness, letting the tension build between them like a rope being drawn taut.  When Hawke finally draws his fingers up from Fenris’s hip to his chest, the elf takes in a slow, shuddering breath, and Hawke places a soothing kiss on the cusp of one raised vertebrae.

 

He steps closer to Fenris, raising his head to touch his tongue to the tip of a pointed ear and reveling in the gasp he hears.  He grazes the soft skin there with his teeth, and the slender fingers entwined with his tighten convulsively.  He traces the shell of Fenris’s ear and nips at the earlobe teasingly.

 

“ _Hawke_.”  Fenris’s voice is little more than a whisper, a plea that hardens Hawke’s length more surely than any touch.  He flattens his hand against Fenris’s chest, drawing him back against Hawke, so that the elf can _feel_ the effect he has on the mage.  His cock brushes against the cleft between Fenris’s buttocks, and Fenris presses back against it with a low growl.  They both shiver at the contact, and Hawke drops his lips to Fenris’s neck and brings his hand up to caress the curve of Fenris’s throat.  His thumb brushes against a racing pulse, and his teeth bite into a protruding tendon.  Fenris swallows hard, the muscles working under Hawke’s fingertips that are tracing feather-light touches down the length of Fenris’s long neck.

 

The lithe body against him turns at last, eyes molten with heat.  Olive fingers delve into his hair and pull Hawke down to meet full lips, chapped from the sun.  Fenris kisses the same way he fights, aggressive and strong, plundering Hawke’s mouth thoroughly before allowing the mage to come up for air.  Hands that easily wield a two-handed axe push him to the floor before the flickering flames, onto a bear-skin rug.  The coarse fur caresses Hawke’s back as Fenris straddles his legs, swollen lips parted and eyes raking over Hawke’s chest and stomach to rest at last on Hawke’s erection.  Mischievous, mossy eyes meet Hawke’s glazed ones as a pink tongue darts out to lick the bead of clear fluid at the tip.  A smile ghosts over Fenris’s usually stoic face as Hawke’s length twitches in response, and Fenris offers him a teasing quirk of the lips before dipping his head to take Hawke fully into his mouth.

 

Hawke’s fingers scrabble into the rug desperately as his back bows in ecstasy.  His face turns into the fur with a groan as Fenris swallows, muscles working the thick cock that presses against the back of his throat.  It doesn’t take long before Hawke is tugging at silky, silver hair, begging wordlessly for Fenris to pause before Hawke reaches his peak far too soon.  Fenris releases him with a long, reluctant suck that has Hawke gasping with the effort to hold back, mouth agape, pupils blown wide, and toes curling into the black fur beneath him.

 

They have both passed the moment for tenderness, their need a palpable force driving them together with low growls and nails digging into flesh.  Fenris devours him with a clever tongue and skilled lips while Hawke bucks up to brush his erection against the elf’s.  Skin slides against skin moistened with sweat, and Hawke touches the pale tattoos at Fenris’s hip with reverence, lyrium adding its song to his desire.

 

“ _Fenris_ ,” he gasps, and the elf rears up panting, eyes half-lidded, his cock so engorged that it curves up toward his stomach, leaking precum.  He starts to reach for a vial sitting on a nearby chair, but Hawke lashes out and grabs his wrist.

 

“No.  Take _me_.”

 

Fenris’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth as if to speak, but there is a flash of light as Hawke raises one hand to cast a grease spell, and Fenris’s markings flare in response to the magic.  Fenris leans his head back, gulping, and shudders once uncontrollably, a moan escaping his throat.  Hawke reaches out with his dry hand to grasp the base of Fenris’s erection and squeezes firmly, waiting for his lover to drift back from the precipice.  Another shudder and Fenris drops his chin to his heaving chest, struggling for control.  Hawke releases him and Fenris scoots to one side to allow Hawke to spread his legs.  Glazed eyes watch Hawke avidly while the mage prepares himself with a little more show than is necessary, enough to have Fenris balling his fists to keep his hands from doing some wandering of their own.

 

Hawke pulls his own knees back, exposing himself, slicked and ready.  Fenris kneels before him and fixes his gaze on Hawke’s as he penetrates with exquisite slowness, both of them gasping in unison as the head of Fenris’s cock breaches the tight ring of muscle.  He slides home with ease and leans forward to touch his forehead to Hawke’s, both of them quivering with the sheer sensation of being joined.  For Hawke, it is the realization of a dream that has finally emerged from the Fade.  For Fenris, it is coming _home_.

 

Fenris finally pulls back enough to allow himself to move… slow, deep thrusts that leave Hawke breathless, a rivulet of clear fluid trickling down his weeping erection.  He keeps his eyes fastened on Fenris, on the slim, powerful body sliding above him with an abandon that Fenris so rarely displays.  This is the most beautiful sight Hawke knows:  Fenris, flushed and wild, moving with the grace of an unleashed predator, eyes darkened with uncontrolled passion.  At one time, he had never hoped to be granted this, and now that he has it, he will never get enough.

 

Hawke reaches up with one trembling hand and grasps Fenris’s shoulder, and the elf slows in understanding.  His eyes meet Hawke’s briefly, and he braces himself firmly with both hands clutching the rug.  Hawke reaches inside himself and draws forth his magic slowly, letting it build before finally releasing it through his hand and into Fenris.  The lyrium tattoo beneath Hawke’s hand flares into an incandescent blue that flows like a river throughout every marking in Fenris’s skin.  There is a shout, and Fenris arches back, eyes wide, fingers digging into the fur so hard that Hawke hears it rip.

 

He is a magnificent sight, every inch of skin lit with flowing lines of sky blue.  Hawke watches in awe as he convulses and then flares even brighter, sending out a wave of magic that hits Hawke like a crashing surf.  Warmth floods every limb and muscle, and Hawke goes rigid with pleasure, his magic rushing to the surface to meet the call of Fenris’s lyrium.  He forces his eyes to remain open, to _see_ the miracle they have created:  a sphere of blue sparkling around both their bodies, radiating from Fenris’s markings and fueled by Hawke’s power, the physical manifestation of their unspoken love.

 

Fenris cries out again and slams his hips deep as his release overcomes him, and Hawke feels the pulse of his ecstasy inside.  His lips part in a keening wail as the shimmer of the glow around them intensifies, and he jerks helplessly as streams of milky fluid shoot across his stomach.  It seems to endure forever, the pumps of his cock and the storm of pleasure consuming him until he is left hollow and boneless, magic ebbing away like the tide.  The glow subsides, and he feels Fenris slump to his chest with a groan that sounds as if it is torn from his soul.

 

Time passes, and the flames subside into flickering embers.  Hawke cards his fingers through Fenris’s hair, which is now ruffled from their lovemaking.  The elf murmurs sleepily in response and curls into Hawke’s side, his head nestled against Hawke’s shoulder.  Hawke is loath to move and disrupt the peace, reaching out instead to snatch a blanket from the arm of the nearby chair.  He drapes it over their entwined bodies and wraps an arm around Fenris’s waist.  The Fade beckons, and Hawke enters it willingly, fingers securely entwined and anchored within those lined with lyrium.

 

In the morning, as the first rosy rays of dawn slip through haphazardly closed curtains, Hawke wakes and experiences those first terrifying moments of déjà vu, a hollow memory echoing through the long corridors of the past.  But this time, there is a solid warmth at his side and snowy hair tickling his chest, and those slender fingers are still _there_ alongside his own.  Through it all is the comforting hum of lyrium song, reminding Hawke that yes, this is _real_ , and Fenris is _here_.  They are home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the UST has finally turned to RST! This doesn't end their story, however. I will continue to write stories about their life together as the ideas come, although they might not always be in chronological order. Thanks to Zevgirl for her hard beta work!


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